Of birds, bees and bombs
by Lucyinthesky1996
Summary: Sequel to "Of birds and bees" Sherlock's life seems complete with two kids and a perfect lover. But then his past catches up with him. Meanwhile, Moriarty has a secret admirer WARNING: MPREG AT THE BEGINNING AND RAPE. CHANGES BEING MADE.
1. Harriet Amelia Holmes

"Push Sherlock!"

"Come on Sherl, just one more push!"

Anderson tightened his grip on Sherlock's left shoulder whilst Mycroft did the same on the right. Sherlock pushed as if his life depended on it but the baby stayed stubbornly where it was. Pain overwhelmed him and he let out a strangled cry. He didn't really remember what had happened; hours before he'd been at his laptop working on a new case when the next thing he knew, his waters had broken. It had been rotten luck that the only people he could contact at that crucial moment were his least favourite people in the world - Anderson and Mycroft. He began to question if they'd actually come to his aid. But Mycroft was there in ten minutes flat and Anderson proved to be a very good midwife. Lestrade and John had arrived when Sherlock was three hours into giving birth and had waited in the hallway outside to give Sherlock some dignity.

John winced at the screams that echoed from the next room and shot Lestrade a nervous look. In the corner, Mrs. Hudson was holding his first son James, who was anxiously sucking his thumb. James was almost two and a half now and had taken the appearance of Sherlock completely. The same black curly hair, the same face shape, the same pale complexion. Not just that, he loved making things explode. At Mrs Hudson's feet sat Gladstone, the English bulldog John and Sherlock had adopted before James was born. Every so often, his ears would spring up when he heard Sherlock cry out. But he stayed where he was, too obedient to do anything else.

Lestrade put a comforting hand on John's shoulder as another scream rang out from behind the closed door. At least this was a better environment than the last time Sherlock had given birth. In a flooded cell in the middle of an abandoned warehouse. Yes, this was much more settling. John felt his face screw up as Sherlock screamed for what seemed the final time and then something else filled the air.

The sound of a baby crying.

And Mycroft's voice, obviously on the verge of happy tears.

"Open your eyes Sherlock."

Sherlock slowly opened them, the feeling of exhaustion overwhelming him. He looked at Anderson and then at the baby in Anderson's hands, wrapped in Sherlock's big navy coat. John opened the door slowly and watched as Mycroft gently cut the chord. He looked very different to what he usually looked like; he'd replaced his suit with a more casual jumper and trousers, giving him the appearance of‚ well, almost a dad.

Anderson gave John a friendly smile as he handed the small bundle to him, "You have a daughter John. Congratulations."

John looked down at the little baby girl who was now quiet and blinking up at him with her aquatic blue eyes. He felt a smile break out as he tenderly stroked those little hands. He crouched beside his lover and put an arm around him.

"You did it Sherlock," he kissed those dark curls, "you did it."

Sherlock smiled, though it was obvious he was exhausted as he was still gasping for breath and John gently handed the baby for him to hold in his arms. He gazed down at the little beauty who already seemed the exact image of John Watson and started deducting almost immediately.

**Faint spots on the bridge of her nose:** She'd probably have freckles, more on the left cheek than the right. Obviously inherited by her late grandmother.

**Light strands of hair:** She was going to be blonde, probably taken after her second aunt on John's side.

**Seemed taken in by people's eyes:** She was going to be a daddy's girl.

Then he stopped because he was too tired to deduct any more.

"You're beautiful..." he said quietly, gently kissing the top of her head, "look what we did, John. Look what we did."

John held onto the little one's hand as the others backed away out of the door, leaving the parents to have a moment alone with their new daughter.

"She's gorgeous," John released her finger and stroked those delicate cheeks.

"She looks just like you."

"You think so?"

"Yeah," Sherlock suddenly yawned.

"So," John said, allowing Sherlock to rest his head on his shoulder, "that's all of us then. Me, you, James and little Amelia."

"Actually‚" Sherlock said quietly, "I've had a change of heart."

"Oh?"

"Yes...I have a better name."

"Let's hear it then."

"...What do you think of Harriet Amelia Holmes?"

John looked at him, "Harriet? After Harry?"

It'd been only a year since Harry died. Her death seemed to have changed John. Sherlock could sense it. There was something in his eyes that wasn't quite the same. He never laughed like he used to. Whenever there was a case about a shooting of some kind, he tended to avoid it. Sherlock couldn't stand watching him go through so much pain; he himself had experienced tragedy in his life and knew about that cold, empty feeling deep inside of you. Then he thought...maybe if their baby was a girl...

Sherlock nodded, "Do you like it?"

John looked down at the little baby then at his lover who was peering at him anxiously.

"I love it Sherl," and he placed a kiss on the man's lips, "I love it."


	2. First smile

"Who's a pwetty baby? Who's a pwetty little girl?"

"John, if there was an award for speaking baby talk,_ you_ would win it," Sherlock said, not looking up from his novel.

John pulled a face. He was lying on the sofa, Harriet in his arms and had been talking constantly to her for the last thirty minutes.

"What's wrong with baby talk?" he said then he turned back to his daughter, "Harry woves baby talk, don't you wittle Harry?"

Sherlock sighed. He had a nasty feeling that his daughter would turn out less intelligent than he wanted her to if John continued to bombard her with that gibberish. His was distracted from his reading when James tugged at his sleeve, whining for a cuddle and he lifted the toddler onto his lap.

"You were too clever for baby talk," Sherlock said to him quietly, "I knew you'd be a clever one. Just like your daddy, right?"

"Wrong!" James giggled at his favourite word and bounced up and down on Sherlock's lap. Sherlock smiled, then stiffened a little when his son's grey eyes locked into his own. James had strange eyes. To a normal person ‚ or a 'stupid' person as Sherlock called them ‚ they would appear to be a dark blue. But if you looked really closely, you could see they were actually a dull silver-grey. How this was possible, even the consulting detective didn't know.

But what bothered him was the fact he had the same eyes as…

Sherlock shook his head, dismissing the thought. James Hamish Holmes was nothing like Jim Moriarty. It'd only been recently that Sherlock had had the courage to look his own baby in the eye‚ and even then he couldn't do it without wincing. But now‚ little James was looking up at him with those same eyes‚ and he felt something different to what he felt when he looked at Moriarty. The feeling of sudden contentment.

God, he loved his son.

"Who's a pwetty baby Harry?" John continued, "Are _you_ a pwetty baby? Yes you

are, yes you are!"

Harriet suddenly giggled, a small but sweet laugh that escaped her lips and made her whole face light up with a pretty smile. John could barely believe it.

"Sherlock! She smiled!"

Sherlock glanced up, allowing James to suck on his sleeve.

"Do it again Harry, do it again."

He bounced her up and down in his arms and she smiled again; a brighter, wider

smile than before.

"See Sherl?" John snuggled the little one closer to him, "I told you she loved

baby talk."

"John..."


	3. First word

John had been called out to treat a patient who lived on the other side of London, where an elderly woman was complaining of chest pains. Fortunately, it had only been a panic attack and she was given the all clear. By the time John left the old people's home, it was almost eleven and he decided it might be wiser to book into a hotel for the night. He was about to text Sherlock to tell him of his plans when his phone beeped and he received a message.

Come home right now. It's an emergency. **SH**

This text surprised John, as Sherlock would normally _call_ him in an emergency. However, he waylaid a cab and got the quickest route back to 221B Baker Street, though he was uncomfortable throughout the entire journey as he was plagued with worry. What if something had happened to Sherlock or worse, James or Harriet? What if Sherlock had left one of his experiments lying around and one of the children had got hurt? What if the children _were_ the experiment? Anything was possible with Sherlock Holmes.

The cab driver seemed to notice his discomfort.

"Bad day at the office?"

"You could say that," John made sure he used his words carefully as he'd had a bad experience with cab drivers in the past. So bad, he ended up shooting one.

"I know how you feel mate. Still, it's the end of the day. Time to go home and put your feet up. Mind you, I'll probably be up all night trying to get the baby down. You got any kids?"

"Two."

"Boys, girls or both?"

"Both. A boy and a girl."

"Ha, kids. They can be right little buggers when they want to be."

_Speak for yourself_, John thought.

"Do you ever get any time to yourself?"

"Sometimes. But I've been feeling a little rough lately"

"Is that what your missus says?"

John didn't reply to this. He just sat there, twiddling his thumbs until he arrived back at 221B. He paid the cab driver the very expensive fare and quickly made his way into the flat.

"I'm here!' he said, bursting through the door panting, "What's happened? What's wrong?"

Sherlock turned around and John could see there was a big grin on his face. He was holding Harriet in his arms.

"Say it again Harry," he said, "Say to John what you said to me."

Harriet blinked at John with her big eyes and suddenly said, "_Bored!_"

John blinked, staring at the little girl in the consulting detective's arms. The colour seemed to drain from his face.

"Is that it?"

Sherlock's face fell, "What do you mean, is that it?"

"I was on the other side of _London_ Sherlock, I thought it was an _emergency_."

"You're saying that hearing your little girl saying her first word _isn't _an emergency?"

John opened his mouth to argue when Harriet reached out for him.

"Bored."

John took her from Sherlock's arms and couldn't help smiling at her, despite the fact he was exhausted out of his wits. Honestly, he'd hoped one of his children would have taken after him for a change. One Sherlock was bad enough. But three was going to be insufferable.

"I'm sorry Sherl," John said, after they had put Harriet to bed, "I was tired, I overreacted."

"No, I shouldn't have texted you and worried you like that. I was just…"

"Excited?"

"You know I rarely feel like that John."

"Anyway, I need to sleep. Have another appointment tomorrow," he stretched out in the bed and turned the lamp off.

Sherlock sighed and slid into bed next to him, curling up to the half asleep doctor so his head was rested underneath John's chin.

"Oh and by the way Sherlock," John spoke without opening his eyes.

"Hmm?"

"Where'd you suppose Harriet got the word 'bored' from?"

"Oh, I can't imagine."


	4. To die, to sleep

****WARNING:**** This chapter contains references of rape. If you do not like, do not read please.

* * *

><p>It'd been almost a year and a half since Jim Moriarty had killed someone.<p>

His taste for watching people suffer seemed to have been washed out of him. Now he just sat alone in a darkened room all day, barely eating, never sleeping and rarely talking to anyone other than himself. He had dismissed his associates, or snipers as many called them, saying he would not need them for a while. Depression had overwhelmed him and now whenever he sat by himself, a gun was always there in his hand.

_Where had it all gone wrong?_

He knew where. It'd all gone wrong when he'd met Sherlock Holmes.

Moriarty hadn't always been a criminal mastermind.

There was a time when he was just a normal student, hoping for a degree in science when he reached uni. He was a teacher's pet, a star pupil and the boy the ladies all died for. But Sherlock…well he was something completely different. He was the boy who no one wanted to work with in class. He was the mathematical genius that everyone nicknamed 'freak'. He was Jim's rival in every exam, competition or science fair back then.

He was a _genius_.

So Jim should have hated him‚ right?

Jim didn't hate him. Completely the opposite in fact. It wasn't just those sky blue eyes or those dark curls that drew him in. There was something else‚ something about the young man that made him…he didn't know how to explain.

And then that night, when the wild party at the school had gotten out of hand.

Jim had been there.

* * *

><p>The school disco of 1985. The one event before school broke up for the holidays where you could go wild and let your hair down.<p>

Jim did a lot more than that.

He had managed to shake off a few girls who had tried to dance with him - don't get him wrong, he'd have been more than happy to - had their voices not been slurred with drink. So Sebastian Wilkes had managed to sneak alcohol into the school again? The teachers really needed to up their game if they wanted to prevent their students from turning up to class the next day with hangovers.

Jim didn't think much of alcohol himself but had pleasured himself with a few beers just to please the others. After a while, he got tired of watching Sally Donovan stick her tongue in Pete Anderson's mouth (both were clearly wasted,) and looked around hoping to find a more sober person to talk to.

And he found one. Sherlock Holmes. Sitting all on his own. Reading a book on astronomy.

Not that _that _was a surprise.

"Feeling a little lonely?"

Sherlock looked up and for a moment, he almost looked surprised. Jim detected some hopefulness in his face which quickly disappeared.

"Don't like talking to strangers then?" Jim took a seat next to the dark-haired boy, watching as those pale cheeks turned a little red.

"That is irrelevant," Sherlock muttered.

"Why aren't you dancing?"

"That isn't really my area."

"What is your area?"

"More important things."

"You don't have to drown yourself in all that stuff you know," Jim nodded at the

book, "Sometimes you just need to relax and enjoy yourself. You know, take it

easy."

Sherlock looked up at him, "You think_ physics_ is easy?"

"I think _Sally_ is easy."

Sherlock looked at Sally Donovan who still had her tongue locked in Anderson's mouth. They looked like they were eating each other. He snorted with laughter.

"I think Anderson's girlfriend will have something to say about that tomorrow."

Jim didn't reply. Sherlock certainly looked different when he laughed. His face seemed to light up a bit more. His eyes sparkled. His cheeks suddenly sparked with colour. He saw Jim staring.

"Not good?" he asked, his face going back to its normal form.

"No, no," Jim snapped out of his daydream, "It's fine."

_It's fine._

It wasn't fine. After that, nothing was fine. That was the night everything fell apart.

_"Come on, just one more."_

_"I told you Jim, I don't drink." _

_"You've had two already."_

_"Only because you made me." _

_"Come on Sherl, have some fun for once."_

_"You're drunk."_

_"No I'm not…well maybe a little, but I can still stand on one foot."_

_"I forgot about your tepid opinion on alcohol."_

_"Oh, come on! You only live once!"_

You only live once.

God, they had lived that night.

Jim could barely remember the details but boy, they had _lived_.

He remembered crashing through the school halls, the music from the party now muffled as he towed Sherlock behind him. He remembered Sherlock, helping him into one of the empty dark classrooms and sitting him on a desk.

"Sherly-"

"Honestly Jim, how much did you drink?" he studied him, "Actually, don't answer that. It's obvious. You're pupils are dilated, your breath stinks of Jack Daniels and you can barely walk in a straight line. I'd say…three to four bottles?"

Jim stared at him, though his vision was so blurry now, all he could see was white fuzz.

"That…was…bloody amazing."

"Thank you," Sherlock tilted Jim's head to the side, examining his eyes, "Bloodshot. You need a coffee. Two sugars with cream should do the trick."

He made a move to leave but something caught his arm.

"Don't leave…" Jim breathed out the air he was desperately trying to keep in. The sight of Sherlock suddenly made him short of breath, "stay…"

Sherlock seemed to hesitate but sat down next to the other boy, shifting a little. Jim looked at him, and suddenly folded a lock of his hair behind his ear.

"You're bloody gorgeous, d'you know that?"

Sherlock's eyes widened when Jim wound his arms around his waist and started planting small kisses on his neck.

"Jim-"

"You're perfect…"

"Jim, we've barely even met-"

"Who cares?"

"I-"

"Let's get these off," his hands slipped to Sherlock's trousers, and despite the fact they were shaking, they managed to unbuckle his belt.

"Jim, you can't-"

Sherlock's hands were restrained from protecting his lower area as Jim tugged down his jeans and started kissing around his thighs.

"You're beautiful."

"_You're_ drunk."

"Come on Sherly," he ran his lips against the side of his face, "You _know_ you want it."

There was a small feeling lingering in Sherlock, something he only felt when he was at home. The horrible, burning feeling of downright fear.

"_Fifteen_…" he breathed, his voice shaking, "I'm only fifteen…"

"I'm sorry to hear that Sherly," Jim's mind was completely overthrown by drink as he pinned Sherlock down on the table, "But it's too late to back out now..."

And then everything was blocked out by the screaming.

* * *

><p>Sherlock changed Jim. He changed Jim completely. After that night, Sherlock belonged him. That is, until Sherlock got away. And then he met John...<p>

But Moriarty had turned into a bloodthirsty psychopath long before then. Well, that's what the media called him. They seemed to forget that deep down, James Moriarty was still human. And now here he was, sitting on unchanged sheets; holding a revolver in his hand.

What was the point of life anyway? All it did was stab you in the back and throw bad fortune at you. Now death; Jim had witnessed death and he saw that feeling; when you see the life drain out of someone's eyes. And then they are at complete peace.

_Peace._

As Shakespeare once said.

_To die._

_To __**sleep**__._

It was too late.

The metal was already touching his forehead. It could all be gone in a few seconds. Just one little click, a few seconds of pain. But pain didn't scare Jim Moriarty anymore. One little click and it could all go away. Whether he was sending himself to an even worse torture he didn't know; heaven was certainly out of the question. What would life be like, down below? He was never one for believing in the supernatural‚ but still‚ where would he go?

A sudden bump outside his door made him jump; he'd asked to be left alone. He slid the gun back under his pillow and opened the door of the room, promising he would skin whoever it was if it was something less than an emergency. There was no one in sight. Except something at his feet.

A small black gift box; the kind of box you would put an engagement ring in.

He glanced around again, incase there was anyone lingering through the hallways before picking up the small box and taking it back into the room. He sat once more upon his bed and opened the box with slightly trembling hands. Inside was a small peridot brooch. Peridot; his birthstone.

But how?

There was something else too. Tucked underneath the brooch was a folded piece of paper. He slowly took it out and opened it; it was obvious it had been folded several times. He smoothed the paper out and saw there was writing on it. Small, italic writing.

_I thought this might be useful to you xxx_ **JC**

And pinned to the note was the last thing Moriarty expected to see.

Sherlock Holmes's birth certificate.


	5. Letters in cat blood

"Harriet should be learning to crawl soon," Sherlock said, studying his daughter who was bouncing up and down in her highchair.

John didn't say anything; he just watched James roll around on the floor with Gladstone. It amazed him how good the dog was with children. It was as if he was a nanny in wolf's clothing. Well, more or less.

"John?"

The doctor turned around to look at the detective, "Sorry?"

"Harriet should be learning to crawl by now, she's almost seven months old."

"Some babies start late Sherl, there's nothing to worry about."

"I know‚ but still…"

John could see the detective's discomfort. He knew how attached the man was to his children. If they didn't eat properly, sleep for the right amount of time or caught the mildest cold, he would worry constantly.

"Gladstone, Harriet!" John said, clapping his hands and summoning the bulldog to his side whilst he took the baby out from her chair, "Let's show daddy what we've been practicing for the past few weeks."

Sherlock looked confused as John set Harriet down on the rug so she was sitting on her padded backside. Gladstone went and sat next to her as John crouched on the other side of the rug so they were a few meters apart.

"Okay Gladstone," he looked towards the small dog, "Teach Harry how to crawl."

The dog suddenly sank to the floor and began shuffling towards John on his tubby little stomach. It took Sherlock only a matter of minutes to realise that he was mimicking a crawling baby. Harriet watched him with great curiosity and did her best to copy the dog, though she only made it halfway across the rug. Still, it was a start.

Sherlock watched in disbelief as Gladstone repeated what he'd done previously and Harriet followed him like a sheep does a shepherd.

"How did you get him to do that?"

"I don't know," John scratched the back of his head, "He just started crawling along the floor one day - as dogs do - and Harriet started copying him. He's a brilliant teacher."

"I'll say."

At that moment, Mrs. Hudson called from downstairs.

"Sherlock! Letter for you!"

Sherlock, who didn't like getting up when he was sitting comfortably, shot a willing look at John, but the doctor automatically shook his head.

"Oh no you don't. You're not pregnant anymore, remember?"

Sherlock pretended to pout then lazily pulled himself out of his chair and went downstairs. Mrs. Hudson presented the envelope to him.

"I must say, it's the strangest letter I've ever seen. I'm certain that wasn't written in biro," she nodded at Sherlock's name which was inscribed on the front of the envelope, "Still, you never know with people these days..."

Sherlock sniffed at the crimson writing and almost immediately pulled a face.

He knew that smell. The foul stench of cat blood.

_Only one person he knew was evil enough to drain a cat's blood and use it for_

_ink. _

He gently slid the letter open and read the small note that was inside.

_It's been a while, Sherly dear._

The note was stapled to something, something which made Sherlock's blood freeze once he'd taken a proper look at it.

"…people write with all kinds of things these days," Mrs. Hudson's voice suddenly came back into the room, "I don't know what ever happened to writing letters; it's all texting and messaging and facebook now with you young people and- are you alright dear? You've gone terribly pale."

Sherlock looked at the paper in his hand and quickly excused himself from Mrs. Hudson's presence. He could feel his legs shaking a little as he walked back up the stairs and into room B.

"Sherlock!" John's face was that of pure excitement, "She crawled! She did it all by herself!" he stopped when he saw the colour had drained from the detective's face.

"Sherl?"

Sherlock said nothing. James began tugging at his trouser leg, wanting attention. John noticed something; when Sherlock picked the boy up he seemed to be clinging to the youngster, as if he couldn't bear to let him go.

Something had happened.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?"

Not a word left Sherlock's lips. He just handed the paper to John and let the note do the talking.


	6. Misfits

"A_ map_?"

Sherlock allowed James to chew on his forefinger and nodded. John shrugged.

"What's so bad about that?"

"Use your _head,_ John," Sherlock said, maybe a little more harshly than he had intended, "Anything that comes from Moriarty is sure to be trouble."

"You don't know that it's from Moriarty."

"Only a simpleton couldn't see that it is. Moriarty never writes in ink, he writes in cat blood. It was a black cat this time, possibly a kitten, I can tell because there is a black hair in the third letter of my name. Also, the note. Even _you _don't call me Sherly that often, that's the pet name he gave me, always addresses me with his because he knows it makes me uncomfortable. Third of all, the handwriting. Typical Moriarty, always writing as if he's Shakespeare himself, so it must be from him."

"Alright, alright," John hated Sherlock in a bad mood, "All I'm saying is, what's so bad about a map?"

"It isn't the map itself," Sherlock suddenly tensed up, "it's where it leads to."

"Why? Where does it lead?"

Sherlock didn't reply, just put his cheek on James' hair, rubbing them against those soft curls.

"I just don't know how…_how_ did he know?"

"Sherlock, where does it lead?"

Sherlock felt Harriet tugging at his trouser leg and pulled her up onto his lap so she sat next to her brother.

"My babies…" he said quietly.

John sighed; it was obvious Sherlock wasn't going to open up to him. He got up and was just about to go into the kitchen when Sherlock spoke again.

"It's the route to my dad's house."

John stopped and turned to stare at Sherlock with an unreadable expression, "Your dad's house?"

Sherlock nodded, still looking at his two children who were slowly drifting to sleep in his arms.

"But how would he-?"

"If I knew John, I would tell you," he suddenly let out a sarcastic laugh, "Sherlock Holmes doesn't know the answer. You don't hear that everyday do you?"

"What are you going to do?"

"What else can I do? I told Moriarty how my father used to treat me long ago, when I trusted him. I should have known he'd use it against me one day; he always told me to go out and find him, to face my fear. I guess I owe him that much John. He saved me from that _monster._"

"So you're going to see him?"

"I need to face him one of these days. No doubt he's seen me on TV already."

"What will you say to him?"

"I'll tell him what I've wanted to tell him for a long time. What a cruel hearted tyrant he is."

"You don't have to go alone."

"I do John. Someone needs to stay home and look after the children" his eyes fell upon the sleeping toddlers on his lap and he suddenly bent his head, letting out a sob, "Oh God, the children…"

"Hey…" John put his arms around the consulting detective and gently began to soothe him, "It'll be okay."

"Nothing's okay anymore John, nothing. God, what will he think if he finds out about James and Harriet?"

"It doesn't matter what he thinks. What matters is what _you_ think. Look, you're not in the right state to go alone._ I'll_ stay here with the children and send Lestrade to watch you."

"But John-"

"I'm not having you go down there alone Sherlock. Doctor's orders."

Sherlock sighed and rested his head back on John's chest. Gladstone came and sat next to John, rubbing his snout against his thigh.

"Look at us all," John said, rubbing the dog under her chin, "You'd never think we'd all go together would you?"

"Funny things happen John," Sherlock wiped his moist eyes and kissed both his children, "Who knew a misfit like me would end up with something so special?"

John smiled "I guess we're all misfits together now."


	7. Facing up to old fears

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

Sherlock sighed, Lestrade's gentle tone failing to comfort him. They had parked the car just outside the gate to his father's house, giving Sherlock time to prepare himself. It was a big house; had obviously cost quite a tidy sum. So his father was a millionaire now? That was the last thing he expected. Now another excuse for him to look down at his son. It was a proper mansion; a hand me down, probably had been around since the Victorian age, hand made by the looks of it. The paint was going dry; Sherlock could see it even from that distance. He sighed again. Here he was deducting the furnishings of a house when he had more important things to worry about.

"No," he said honestly to the chief detective, "But I have to. Otherwise I'll never get it off my chest."

"Sherlock‚" Lestrade lowered his voice and turned a little so he was properly facing him, "Do you remember when I first met you? You were only about sixteen when I did, but do you remember what I said to you?"

Sherlock smiled at the memory, "Life is what you make it."

"Exactly. And look what you have Sherl. Two years ago you were sitting alone in an empty flat somewhere, now you have a family. I've watched you and John together and do you know what Sherl? I've never seen you happier. So if that old bastard - pardon my language - gives you any crap, I'll be happy to run a bullet through his head."

Sherlock laughed, "I don't think that will be necessary."

"Yeah well.." Lestrade gave him a half smile, "You know, I've never had children myself Sherlock. But you…well‚ you know_…_"

"Yeah," Sherlock patted his arm, "I know."

He opened the car door and took a deep breath, walking up to the intercom that was on the gate. He pressed the button and there was a buzzing sound.

Then a voice that definitely wasn't his father asked, "Who is it?"

A woman. Late forties. Her tone was gravelly.

So his father had moved on had he?

"It's _me_," Sherlock said through clenched teeth.

There was a pause before there was another buzzing sound and the gate opened. Sherlock took one last look at Lestrade and then started walking towards the house

When Sherlock tapped the brass lion knocker, it opened almost immediately. In the doorstep stood a woman, definitely in her forties as Sherlock had predicted. She should have looked young, but there was something that made her look older. Her skin looked similar to sandpaper, her hair was tied up in a greasy bun and her lips were a blood red. She was stuck in the fifties; she wore a cream coloured blouse and a black stripy Mrs. Johnson skirt which looked too tight around the hips, giving her the appearance of an ageing Cruella DeVille. She wore leopard kitten heels which looked too small for her. On her wrist was seven or more oriental bracelets. She also wore far too much scent.

Probably to block out the nicotine. She was a smoker.

She greeted Sherlock as if he were a stray cat.

"He's in the lobby," she said vaguely in her dry voice and started walking down the hallway, her heels slapping against the marble floor. Sherlock hesitantly walked in after her.

The house was much bigger on the inside; it had just been decorated, Sherlock could tell. The walls smelt of newly lain paint and disinfectant was clearly still lingering in the air, it made Sherlock almost cough. On the ceiling hung a golden chandelier, its glittering candles making small dots appear on the ceiling. The floor was so clean you could see your face in it. But there was something about the house that made Sherlock unsettled. It was big, far too big for just two people.

The woman was a brisk walker and did not seem willing to slow down to let Sherlock catch up. So he had to lengthen his footsteps in order to keep in pace with her. Eventually they came to the lobby, which was really just a small living room crowded with designer furniture. The kind of room a duchess would be proud of.

So his father was a gold digger as well?

"Is that you Phyllis?"

_That voice_

It made Sherlock's blood run cold. He kept his eyes to the floor as he walked into the lobby behind Phyllis and only looked up when he could feel that icy gaze fall upon him like an ocean. As soon as he met those eyes, his childhood flashed before him like a film montage. All of a sudden, his senses were going wild. He bit his lip, ignoring the dot of blood that appeared on the side of his mouth as he stared into those hateful eyes.

"Hello father..."


	8. Brother Holmes

Alastair Holmes had changed a lot. He had lost most of his hair, though his grey sideburns were still visible on each side of his head and his skin was now rough and peaky. He was wearing dress pants and a white blouse, something he'd never have normally worn in the past. He had gained weight, not exactly fat but not as well built as he used to be. Those arms still looked capable of swinging a punch though. He was old and bearded, but appeared to be like a normal everyday person.

But Sherlock could see right through that moisturized skin.

"It's been a while Sherly" the man's voice was raspy

"Don't call me that" was the first thing Sherlock could hiss

"Now, now. That's not the way to greet your old dad" the smugness in his voice almost drove Sherlock mad, "So…you decided to pay me a visit?"

"Not that I had much choice…"

"If you've come here to cause trouble-"

"Oh no, I'd _never_ cause trouble father. All the trouble was beaten out of me a long time ago"

At this, a hint of irritation flashed across Alastair's' eyes. Sherlock dismissed it.

"I see you've really gone up in the world" his emotionless tone never changed

"I earn quite a bit with my own business"

"What, by sitting around all day in an overcrowded room, yelling at the competition?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You're a politician" Sherlock stuffed his hands in his pockets, "Oh don't look so surprised, I can tell by your tie. It's navy blue, a sure sign that you have a formal job. Could be a doctor but there are no indications of any medical equipment being used in this house and by the looks of your dry hands, you're allergic to amphetamine. Could be a lawyer but let's be serious here, what kind of lawyer wears beige dress pants? So politician it is. Being a member of Parliament seems the perfect job for you, an excuse to sit on your backside all day and do nothing but rant with your peers. As a member of Parliament you'll mainly be doing three things: representing your constituents, voting on whether to endorse or deny new pieces of legislation and helping decide on new policy. In other words, you'll potentially be helping to make the laws of the land. Well father, I _am_ impressed. You've managed to shove your way to the top of the world, get yourself another wife and drown yourself in endless riches. Now all you have to do is get a decent pair of shoes and start cultivating that evil laugh which tells everyone that you have power"

At this, Phyllis's' eyebrows knitted together in displeasure. Alastair had his head down and Sherlock could see he was stifling the laughter.

"You haven't changed a bit" the man said in his husky voice, "The same old deducting Sherlock. Do you remember what I used to do to you when you deducted things?"

Sherlock suddenly shivered but was determined to stay calm.

"You're wasting your time Sherlock. I already know why you're here"

"Know?"

"About you and your little family"

Sherlock felt his cheeks burning, "How-?"

"I got a phone call a few months ago. A guy who called himself Jim"

At that name, Sherlock flinched

"Ah, so you _do_ know him. He was telling me all about you. Apparently you two have some _history_"

"Whatever he told you…it was a _mistake_-"

Alastair scoffed "Don't try and make excuses. Once a queer always a queer"

The word "queer" made Sherlock's cheeks burn. His fists clenched and for a second he was tempted to dart across the room (being the swift bodied man he was) and deliver a punch right in the middle of that smug poked face. He restrained himself; as he didn't come all this way to lose his temper and then get hauled out by security after only ten minutes.

"So who is this…_John_ person? Not that little dog who always follows you around on TV?"

"Don't call him that"

"I thought you would have settled for better…someone taller perhaps?"

"I love him-"

"No you don't. You and_ your_ kind don't know what love is"

"What do you mean _my_ kind?" Sherlock's anger was rising and he took a step towards the man, fists shaking by his side. Phyllis sensed the upcoming tension and stepped in before an argument broke out.

"Why don't we be civilized about this?"

"Oh believe me Phyllis, there's nothing civilized about this man" Sherlock glared back at Alastair, "Does she know father?"

As he spoke, he walked forward, no longer afraid of that penetrating glare.

"Does she know how you used to waltz in at six in the morning, drunk as a pig whilst our mother lay dying in her bed? Does she know how you used to beat the living daylights out of me whenever I cried or tried to run away?"

"That's enough-"

"Does she know about how you promised that you'd never marry again after mother because she was the love of your life? Does she know?"

"I _said_ that's enough-"

"Does she know that you kicked my dog to death right in front of my very eyes? Does she know?"

Sherlock stopped when he realized he'd been shouting and that his eyes were stinging. He took a deep breath and stepped backwards, as Phyllis glanced between him and his father. She looked ashen.

"You're a liar" Sherlock said quietly, "You…are a cold blooded coward"

At that moment, there was a sound of a door closing in the distance and the sound of footsteps approaching the lobby. Alastair and Phyllis shot each other a nervous glance.

Even Sherlock couldn't deduct what was coming next.

The door of the lobby opened, and a boy walked in. Sherlock turned and stared at him, the information in front of him suddenly hitting him like a bullet.

He was tall, about 6"1 though he was slightly shorter than Sherlock. He had wavy black hair that he constantly flicked out of his eyes. It was a recent haircut. His skin was tanned a little, most probably from a recent holiday to some tropical area. No doubt it was usually pale. And his eyes…a stunning sky blue…it was like looking in the mirror. He must have returned from school, for he carried a shoulder bag on his right and was holding a pile of books. He blinked at the gathering.

"What's going on?"

Sherlock couldn't help the tears reaching his eyes. So this was what his father had been hiding all this time? The almost identical version of himself? He knew his father was evil…but this…

His father's voice was a small hiss

"Maximilian, go to your room"

_Maximilian. The name Sherlock's father had always wanted to call **him**._

Sherlock restrained the upcoming sobs and let out a fake, scornful laugh.

"I see it _all_ now"

"Dad?" the kid looked nervous as he eyed the detective warily, "Who is this?"

"I _said_ go to your room"

Another laughed from the estranged detective's lips "You son of a _bitch_"

"I've seen you somewhere before" the boy peered at him, "Are you that guy from TV?"

"Maximilian Holmes, get up to your room this minute!"

Alastair banged the table with his fists, making the poor kid jump. He let his bag slide off his shoulder and onto the floor before scurrying away from the lobby. Sherlock watched after him until he was gone, his footsteps clapping against the hallway floor. The world's only consulting detective turned and stared the monster that was his father right in the eye.

"Once a liar always a liar" he muttered and walked out of the lobby before they saw his tears fall.

* * *

><p>Lestrade was beginning to glance anxiously at his watch as Sherlock had been almost an hour. He was tempted to go in and see if Sherlock was alright but stopped himself when he saw the detective walking down towards the gate. Well, walking was an understatement. More like storming. He could sense, from the clenched fists to the angry tears streaming down his cheeks, that the talk with his dad hadn't gone well.<p>

Sherlock said nothing as he let himself out through the gate and slammed the car door shut. He sat there in furious silence, arms folded, face wet with his blazing misery.

"Sherlock…"

"Drive" the order was short and sharp

"Sherl-"

"Just _drive_!"

Sherlock's outburst didn't surprise Lestrade. So the grey haired man just turned the key in the engine and started driving the car away from the mansion, no questions asked.

* * *

><p>Not a word was spoken between the consulting detective and the chief of police during the car ride home. Sherlock looked anywhere but Lestrade's direction, trying to keep all the misery inside of him, like he normally did. Lestrade had so many questions spiraling through his mind. He had to know.<p>

"I need to get petrol" he said quietly and when he received no response, he pulled in to the nearest petrol station and stopped the car.

He turned and looked at Sherlock, who was staring out of the window as if wishing he could grow wings and fly out of it. His cheeks were tinted pink. His eyes were lost in another world. Lestrade put a hand on his shoulder. When Sherlock turned around, the chief inspector suddenly saw all the pain in his face and for a moment he understood everything. Everything Sherlock was feeling.

"Sherl…I'm sorry"

Sherlock's barriers came crashing down then. He clutched the man who had been like a father to him for almost twenty years and started to cry into his chest. Lestrade held him, he'd never had children of his own but he knew that crying let everything out and at that moment Sherlock_ needed_ to let everything out; all the pain and misery that had been afflicted on him all his life. He couldn't understand why this child –yes through Lestrade's eyes, Sherlock was still only a child – was so mistreated and underestimated. For Sherlock Holmes…he was _amazing_. He could deduct things before he could speak. Yet the whole world seemed to have a problem with him.

Because he was different…

_God, human beings are cruel_

Lestrade shifted into a more comfortable position and ignored the strange looks they got as Sherlock continued to cry out his frantic screams for help.


	9. Meeting at The Laughing Crow

The past few months had left Moriarty confused. And confusion was an emotion he disliked greatly. With Sherlock's birth certificate, he was able to track down Sherlock's birth father and bring the consulting detective face to face with his biggest fear. Only the first piece of his puzzle. He had returned home only to find another package had been left outside his door, entwined in a black rose. The peridot brooch had been left untouched on his bedside table but he'd carefully placed the black rose in a water jug on his windowsill. Unknown to many, he had a weakness for black roses.

The gift sending had continued. Every day he'd wake to the sound of scratching outside his door and always there would be a small black box or package wrapped in a black rose. From watches to diamond cigarette lighters – this person had money on them. They also knew he was an ex-smoker. Suddenly he longed for the taste of nicotine.

And whoever sent it, always wrote the same thing.

_Thought this might be useful to you. xxx_ **JC**

Always the same.

_Black writing. Three kisses._

The most recent gift was the most bizarre.

He'd woken to a familiar scratching at his door and had opened it, hoping to catch a glimpse of the anonymous deliverer. There was no one in sight – per usual – but a little kitten sitting timidly on the floor, staring up at him with its hypnotising green eyes. It was small, looked only a few months old. Its eyes glinted like emeralds, a shade of green a duchess would be envious of. It was a little on the scrawny side; its fur was slightly matted and there were hints that it had been in a fight (surprising as it seemed so young) but apart from that, a perfectly healthy little cat.

_With a black rose slid through its collar._

Jim sighed.

"More bad luck" he said, lifting the animal into his arms, "I have no food for you"

He took it back into his room and let it explore for a bit whilst he placed the black rose into the water jug among the seven other roses. Funny, eight was his favourite number. This person really wasn't messing around.

He jumped when he felt a pair of claws dig into the hem of his trousers and gently shook the critter off. He was used to cats, he'd owned many in the past. But none with eyes like that. He decided to give the newcomer a chance and held it at arms length, observing it at a distance. Seemed good natured, house trained, bit of a scratcher.

_It might come in useful for writing letters _

_It looked similar to a kitten he'd used just weeks before_

Cats came in useful to Moriarty. Nothing made Sherlock Holmes shiver more than the scent of cat blood. It was rumoured that the deranged psychopath snatched little kittens off the street, drained their blood and then used their skin as a wall decoration. Stupid lies made up by the media. Jim loved cats. He could never do such an inhuman thing to such an innocent little animal – to a human being _yes_ – but a defenceless little kitten? No, he never _killed_ the kittens. He'd just take any random cat or kitten off the street, inject a little blood out of it then let it go. Simple as.

He studied the kitten until he was satisfied, this one was going to be a keeper. He was very taken in by the rhinestone collar around it's neck. It was a small, hardly visible collar, with no tag on it to suggest where it came from. Just a small slot at the front. Just out of curiosity, Jim removed the collar from around the kitten's neck and moved the slot to find it opened. Inside was a small piece of paper. And the same italic writing.

_West Tamsin Street. The Laughing Crow. Be there. We need to talk._ **JC**

* * *

><p>This is crazy, Jim thought to himself as he watched his breath turn cold in the air.<p>

He had walked into a dark area that was dirty and ridden with rubbish, the exact direction of The Laughing Crow. The pavement was chipped and fractured, and seemed to shake whenever the chilling breeze would pass by. There were barely any houses that bordered the street, but the ones that did were torn apart and abandoned, with dark red graffiti sprayed around them, and shattered windows that seemed to house the souls of the deceased. Dim street lights were scattered along the road, some bent and broken, others old and rusty. Although plentiful, the glow these lights gave off was eerie and supernatural, flickering at the slightest hint of movement, and barely managing to keep themselves alive. Strange shadows and foreign voices echoed off the walls, sending a chill down the spines of anyone who dared to enter.

It was after midnight, and the street was dark and empty, the surviving streetlights flickering like candles, threatening to extinguish themselves at any moment. Reaching up through the sidewalk, gnarled tree roots grabbed relentlessly at Jim's ankles. The old abandoned factory on the far left of the road watched menacingly with depthless eyes, waiting for a chance to swallow up any person who hugged the wall too tightly in fear.

Jim was used to this. This was the normal route to the sanctum.

The Laughing Crow was known to be notorious for witchcraft or people who _thought_ they were possessed with magic. All kinds of delusional people went there and it was rumoured that all kinds of spells were conjured up within the walls. It only opened after dark. From the outside, it looked just like a normal pub or cavern. The walls were a variety of brown hues that glowed golden from the yellow lights hanging from the rafters. The interior had a sinister glow to it, it made you feel like you were entering an area full of black magic and mystery. Jim glanced around and then quietly tapped at the wooden door. Almost immediately it flung open and a girl with dark brown hair and snake bite piercings looked him up and down with her auburn eyes, an adder wrapped across her shoulders like a scarf.

"Where's your spirit?" she asked dryly

Jim arched in his front pocket and pulled out the black kitten by the scruff of it's neck. On seeing it, the girl raised her eyebrows slightly, but let him in.

The Laughing Crow hadn't changed a bit. It was still dimly lit, which added to that sinister effect. There were tables laid out on each side of the room, candles lit on each one. Jim already felt the somnolent buzz of the eponymous neon marlin fish out front, providing a backdrop for the clinking of glasses and drone-like chatter of the men and women around him. For a second the talking ceased as everyone turned to catch a glimpse of the intruder. But seeing it was only Moriarty, they gave him a nod and continued. As he entered the joint, the intermingled smells of smoke and sweat and too many people instantly assaulted his nostrils as he inhaled deeply.

"Ahhh, it's good to be home"

He pushed his body through the pulsating throng. Finally finding his way to an empty barstool and sitting down. The blonde barmaid behind the counter gazed lustfully at him behind her blue eyes whilst her ivory cat made itself comfortable on both her shoulders. Jim gave her a playful wink.

"Stella"

"Jim. We haven't seen you here for a while"

"I've been busy"

"Still chasing down that Mr Holmes have you?"

"I got a better offer"

"Shame. He was a cute one"

"Gin and Tonic" he quietly and watched as she nodded melted away into the cries of a hundred other thirsty patrons.

He drank slowly, analysing the mascara and face paint which flashed before him. An old woman sat in the corner, surrounded by teenage girls and boys as she read what looked like an ancient spell book to them, obviously teaching them the ways of witchcraft. Well, it was a spell book in her mind at least. There were lots of animals in there as well; everybody had their spirits with them. Spirits were actually animals that were believed to have a supernatural meaning to them; cats, rats, owls, snakes, toads - that sort of thing. They were said to carry good luck because you needed all the luck you could get when you were in London.

Jim sighed, as a familiar song started playing through the intercoms which were placed in each corner of the room. One thing he hated about The Laughing Crow. Their crap taste in music.

_Guess I'd rather hurt than feel nothing at all_  
><em>It's a quarter after one, I'm all alone and I need you now<em>  
><em>And I said I wouldn't call but I lost all control and I need you now<em>  
><em>And I don't know how I can do without <em>  
><em>I just need you now<em>

Jim hated that song. He had a reason for hating that song. It was the song he and Sherlock had first danced to. It was _their_ song. When they used to hold each other in their arms and tell each other they needed each other...

_God, this was getting cliche... _

Jim tried to ignore the sound from around him and focused his eyes on someone who had been staring at him since he'd arrived. A cloaked figure seated on the far right of the room, who had been watching him for some time since his arrival. Despite the darkness that covered their face, Jim could just see two green eyes peeking out from under the hood. There was a snowy owl perched on the back of her chair behind them, every so often it began to clean it's feathers. Jim put his glass down and leaned towards Stella who was drying beer mugs.

"Who is that?"

Stella followed his gaze and shrugged

"They've been here for a while now" she murmured,"They come in every night and order the same thing. Never see their face"

Jim stared back at them and watched as the figure rose, the bird clambering onto her shoulder as she moved towards a door. A hand emerged from under the clock and beckoned him towards them. Jim wasn't normally a cautious man. He didn't think twice before getting up and following them.


	10. Jacklyn Clockson

**A/N: The character Jacklyn Clockson has kindly been lent to me from Dark Magical Sorcres (thank you :D!) Without her, this story may have never been.**

* * *

><p>The figure walked down some stony steps and into what seemed a back room as Jim followed, not sure whether he was making a mistake or not. He closed the door behind him and got straight to the point.<p>

"Who are you?"

The figure rested the owl on a wooden perch which stood in the corner of the room and let out a small laugh.

"I thought a brilliant mind like you would have worked it out by now"

Jim frowned.

A _woman's_ voice

Their back still to Moriarty, the figure shrugged off their cloak, revealing a mass of dark hair and pale skin. She turned, her green eyes penetrating the darkness. Jim felt himself go cold. She was wearing a vintage black lace dress, which stopped above the knees, giving her a gothic appearance. Her hair was long, down to her breast, straggly at the ends as if it'd just been washed. Her boots were dark and leather, making her appear taller. She smiled at him; a smile similar to his own, cold and cunning as her eyes which were clothed in mascara looked him up and down.

"Jim Moriarty?"

He nodded, though there was still a confused frown spread across his face

"Did you get the present I sent you?"

Jim paused before taking the kitten out of his front pocket and holding it out towards her.

"Oh no, you keep it. Anyway, you'll be needing it" her voice was as smooth as silk, "He is your _spirit_ after all"

Jim placed the kitten back into his front pocket, never taking his eyes off her.

"So why all the gifts?" he asked

"What else would catch your attention? I know what a greedy mind you have"

Jim decided not to respond to this. Instead he repeated his first question.

"Who are you?"

She smiled, walking towards him so her heels tapped against the stone floor. She held out a hand for him to shake as the lyrics from the song rang muffled in the distance.

_Guess I'd rather hurt than feel nothing at all_  
><em>It's a quarter after one I'm all alone and I need you now<em>  
><em>And I said I wouldn't call but I lost all control and I need you now<em>  
><em>And I don't know how I can do without <em>  
><em>I just need you now<em>

"Jacklyn Clockson" then with a seductive flick of her hair, "At your service"


	11. The suspicious two year old

"What happened to _you_?" John asked as soon as the door opened and Lestrade could see he was holding Harriet in his arms whilst attempting to shake off James; who had clung to his left leg stubbornly and was refusing to let go.

Sherlock said nothing, just remained at the doorway, watching the floor as if ashamed. Lestrade cleared his throat.

"Things got a little stressful" at this he eyed Sherlock hesitantly, "So we decided to book into a hotel for the night"

Sherlock nodded in agreement, though his eyes were still fixated on the floor. Judging by the crimson colour spreading across his eyelids, he'd been crying greatly.

"Okay…" John could feel the slight tension mounting up, "…well Harriet needs her milk so can you take James for me Sherl?"

Sherlock nodded again and prised the dark haired toddler from John's leg as the doctor took Harriet into the kitchen. Sherlock barely seemed to notice the little one in his arms. He was too busy staring at the floor, as if he was trying to see right through it. James stared up at him with his blue-grey eyes, studying his father curiously. He may have only been two but he could already deduct how people could feel just by looking them straight in the eye. Right then, he saw everything Sherlock was feeling just by watching his face. He reached up and touched Sherlock's chin with his fingers, as if in a comforting way. Sherlock watched him through red rimmed eyes and gently started planting kisses on those tiny fingertips. Because that's what fathers were meant to do.

_They were meant to love their kids _

_"_We can charge him Sherl. It may have been a long time ago but it still counts as abuse. I can take him down to the station…" but Sherlock was shaking his head.

"It wouldn't make any difference" Sherlock said quietly, "He'd waltz in there, walk all over the jury, make _me_ look like the guilty one, use my mother's illness as a sob story and be back on the streets within weeks"

"You don't know that-"

"But I know my father"

Lestrade let out an exasperated sigh.

"You're just putting pressure on yourself"

"That's life my dear Lestrade"

"Stop it"

"Stop what?"

"Acting like nothing's wrong all the time!" Lestrade stopped when he realised he'd raised his voice and took deep breath to calm himself, "You're in a bad way over this Sherlock and it's going to get worse if you don't let me help you. Now I can't imagine what that maniac is capable of but I can promise you I will not hesitate to smash his head in if he tries to hurt you again, even if it means I rot in a cell for the rest of my bloody life, do you understand me?"

Sherlock blinked. Lestrade didn't normally say so many things in one sentence. It often caused him to go into a coughing fit and this could be disastrous if a cup of coffee was not at hand. The chief of police seemed a little taken back by his outburst as well, but he did his best not to show it.

"All I'm saying is…you're not alone Sherl. I mean there's me, there's John…and there's your kids…"

Sherlock nodded which told Lestrade that he understood, "I'm fine Lestrade really. I won't be needing any help"

Lestrade peered at him, sensing something in his eyes

"Did anything else happen in there Sherlock?"

The detective felt his eyes start to glass over

_Maximillian Holmes, get up to your room this minute!_

_Max_

_Holmes_

**_Brother_**

"Nothing" Sherlock said quickly, "Nothing else..."

He knew the grey haired man didn't believe him but Lestrade put a hand on his shoulder, "Just take care of yourself Sherl"

Sherlock didn't watch after him as he left. He just looked down at little James again, at those small accusing eyes. He smirked.

"What are you staring at?"

"Daddy tell lies"

"What?"

"Daddy need help"

Sherlock blushed. The two year old was getting too smart for his own good.

"No" the detective moved his face closer to the baby's so their noses were rubbing together, "Daddy can look after himself. But I know what _you_ need" he tickled his son under the chin, "A _bath_"

He let out a slightly evil laugh as James squealed and attempted to escape from his grasp but it was useless and he was soon being carted to the bathroom.

Little did the detective know that John had stood there, and listened to every word.


	12. Moriarty, without a doubt

"Something else happened at your dad's…didn't it Sherlock?"

Sherlock stiffened and stopped feeding Harriet, leaving the spoon hanging in mid air.

"My, my Watson; you really are too nosy for your own good"

"Cut the crap Sherlock" John said fiercely then realised his two children were present and calmed himself, "Just tell me what happened"

"You wouldn't understand"

"Try me"

John Watson never gave up. That's why the consulting detective loved him.

"Some things are best left unsaid"

"And you find that easy do you?"

"Yes, very"

There was a harsh silence, the only thing that could be heard was James quietly deducting his food. John sighed.

"I understand Sherlock-"

"No you don't"

"Yes I-"

"You don't understand what it's like living with that monster"

"Yeah well at least he stuck around"

Sherlock felt guilt washing over him. He forgot about the heart wrenching stories that John had told him shortly after they'd met. Of his dad being shot in Afghanistan when he was twelve. How he'd always wanted to be like him. The detective rubbed his eyes, sighing in exasperation.

"I'm sorry John" he said quietly as sorry was not a word he was fond of, "I know how you felt about your dad"

"Yeah well…he wasn't exactly the angel Gabriel when he'd been at the vodka"

Sherlock gave him a questioning look but was interrupted when his phone beeped. He fished into his pocket as John resumed in feeding Harry. What he saw on the phone screen made sweat bead his forehead.

"What's wrong?" John's eyebrows knitted together

"There's been an explosion" Sherlock said, "Moriarty…"

* * *

><p>"They think it was a gas leak" Lestrade shook his head as the smoke drifted from the remains of what seemed to be an old flat, "Only one made it out"<p>

Sherlock looked over to where the paramedics were parked to see a dark haired woman being given an oxygen mask. He could deduct her almost immediately; she was foreign, probably emigrated from Russia as her hair and eyes told him. She was an ex criminal, the ash underneath her nails suggested she was a drug addict as well. But there was something he was missing; he knew it. But he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"We've got a tough case on our hands Sherlock" Lestrade sighed, "I'm going to need your help on this one"

"Lestrade! Benedict and Martin are fighting again!" Sally's voice called out from the police car which was parked not too far away. (No prizes for guessing where I got those names ;D)

"Well stop them then!" Lestrade called back.

He laughed when he saw Sherlock's confused expression.

"I have been landed with the babysitting today. My two nephews. Twins"

"I thought you had no experience with children"

"Well, my sister decided to go up to Leeds the other week and didn't want to drag them up with her so I got lucky. I guess it's only fair, seeing as I don't get to see the little lads much"

"Sir! I could use a hand over here!"

"Alright! I'm coming! I need you to get the victim's name for me. She's still a little nervy so she probably won't talk much but just try and get as much out of her as you can. And be easy on her Sherl" Lestrade started making his way back to Sergeant Donovan, "She's had a nasty shock"

Sherlock nodded, though he wasn't really listening properly. He stared at the remains of the flat, watching as a digger came and started shovelling up the debris.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" John said as he stood by Sherlock

"Moriarty? Without a doubt"

"But why? Why a flat full of innocent people?"

Sherlock sighed, putting his hands in his pockets, "I don't know…I honestly don't"

"Shall we question the survivor?"

"Yes, I suppose…"

The woman was shaking and covered in dirt and ash but apart from that, she wasn't badly hurt. She watched as the two men approached her with her emerald eyes and let out a chocking cough. John crouched in front of her, giving her a reassuring smile.

"What's your name?"

"Jacklyn" she seemed to be struggling to breathe. Her voice was smooth, with a small hint of Russian origin in it. Just as Sherlock thought.

"Okay Jacklyn, did you see anyone hanging around the flat last night? Anyone suspicious?"

"No, there was no one…it was all so fast…"

"Okay, we're going to take you down to the station and get you sorted out, okay?"

She nodded, still shaking like a leaf as she was led away into the ambulance. Lestrade made his way back towards the two men.

"Coming down the station?"

"I would" Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair, "But there's no one to look after the kids"

"I can go home if you want" John offered

"No, I need an assistant for this"

"Maybe Sally can help"

"Let's be serious here John, I highly doubt _Sally Donavon_ would be willing to take care of my children – not that I want her anywhere near them"

"Well then, what about Anderson? Quit staring at me like that Sherlock, it was just a suggestion. Anyway, he was your midwife"

Lestrade leapt in unexpectedly.

"Why don't _I_ look after them?"

The other men blinked, "You?"

"The twins will probably get bored later on in the day so it'll save me having to entertain them. And Sherlock's right John, he needs your help on this one"

John frowned slightly "I'm not sure"

"Relax, it'll be fine"

"Hmm…" the doctor glanced at Sherlock, "…well alright" he handed the door keys to Lestrade, "Just make sure Harriet gets her milk by seven and James doesn't attempt to create a nuclear explosion with his action man"

"They'll be fine, trust me. Now, we need to get that young lady down to the police station as soon as she's given the all clear. I think it's going to be a long day for all of us"


	13. We meet again, Maximillian Holmes

Sherlock observed the woman in front of him, though his actual attention was focused on his watch. He'd give it another hour and then he'd be out of there. He trusted Lestrade but that didn't stop him from worrying.

"So what happened?" he asked dryly, his fingers tapping impatently against the table, "Perhaps skip out all the boring parts and get straight to the point?"

John glared at him and then added quickly, "Take your time."

"I-I was walking home, I'd just been out with some friends‚" her voice seemed to trail off and she rubbed her eyes, "I was near the house and... everything just exploded around me."

"Did you see anyone?" John asked, "Anyone at all?"

"No...I can't remember. Do you think someone did it? It wasn't a gas leak?"

"We're not sure at the moment, but don't worry. We're looking into it. If someone has done it, we'll find them."

"Well, I think that's all we have time for," Sherlock stood up and gathered his coat, "So sorry about your flat, I'm sure you'll be able to find somewhere else to stay for the night."

"Sherlock-"

"Come on John, it's time we were going," the detective said through gritted teeth and he dragged the doctor out of the interregation room.

"What the hell Sherl? The poor girl's flat has just blown up and her neighbours are all dead, you can at least show a little sympathy!"

"Poor girl? There's nothing innocent about her John. She's an addict."

"What?"

"Her fingernails. They have white powder incrusted underneath them. It's fresh, so she's been using recently. Her eyes were red and watery, she had a blank stare, her pupils were massive, only a fool could miss it. Palms were sweaty, she looked like she hasn't eaten in a while so loss of appetite, plus she has needle marks on her arm. She wreaks of cocaine and I'll say the last time she had a snort of it was about six hours ago. Satisfied?"

"...Okay‚ so she's a druggie. But you were once remember?"

"It's not just that John," Sherlock felt his cheeks tint pink, "There's something else, something she's not telling us. I can see it in her eyes, she's looking for something."

"What could that be?"

"I wish I knew."

"Hey, freak!" Anderson was rushing towards them and at the sight of him, Sherlock laughed scornfully.

"Alright, what snide comment do you have to make about this one Anderson? Come on, do your worst."

He stopped when he saw a small glint of fear in Anderson's eyes, something he'd never seen before. The smile slowly drifted off his face. Anderson licked his lips anxiously.

"There's been another explosion."

* * *

><p>"When did it happen?" Sherlock rested his head in his hands, trying to make sense of it all.<p>

"Just a few hours ago," Sally looked grim, "God, where's Lestrade when you need him?"

"I just got off the phone to the paramedics," said Anderson, "Two survivors. A man and his teenage son."

"Bring them down here, I want to question them. Where did this explosion happen?"

At this question, Anderson's eyes rolled over to Sally who replied with a small shake of her head. John frowned, wandering what they were saying to each other in their silent communication. They both seemed a little anxious.

"They didn't say." Anderson said finally, though John could immediately tell he was lying.

"Well, I still want them down here."

"The father's in a coma, he's receiving treatment. The boy is still in shock."

"I don't care if he's in shock, I want him down here."

"But-"

"_Now_."

* * *

><p>Sherlock paced impatiently whilst John watched him with concern, the detective would walk to one side of the room, pause and then walk back. He'd constantly check his watch or mumble something under his breath. It wasn't rocket science to work out what was wrong with the dark haired man.<p>

"You're nervous."

"I'm not nervous." Sherlock growled.

"You don't need to-"

"Her milk."

"What?"

"Harriet needs her milk right about now."

"Lestrade will be fine looking after her, stop worrying."

"I'm _not_ worrying."

John went to argue but was cut short when Sally re-entered the room.

"The boy is ready to talk."

"At last," Sherlock pushed past her and started making his way back to the interrogation room.

Sally shot a confused glance at John.

"Sorry, he's a little anxious at the moment."

"I can tell," Sally snorted before hurrying to catch up with the consulting detective, "Remember to take it easy on him freak" the sergeant struggled to keep up with the detective's fast pace, "He's just lost his mum."

Sherlock muttered something under his breath as he opened the door to the interrogation room and he hastily checked his watch again, for no apparent reason. When he looked up, his whole body seemed to numb all over.

"This is Max." Sally said over his shoulder, "He was coming home from school when it happened."

Max looked up at the detective in front of him, his eyes red and sore from crying. Suddenly their identical eyes met and locked together. The teenager let another tear roll down his cheek.

"_You_?"


	14. The monster's gone

Jacklyn remained alone in the reception area when her phone suddenly beeped.

_How's it going? Did you get in? -_** JM**

_It's going well so far. I'm in the police station. -_ **JC**

_Is Holmes there? -_ **JM**

_Yes. The other bomb went off. He's questioning the boy. -_ **JC**

_Remember, watch his every move. Then we can move onto the next stage. -_ **JM**

_He's going into the interrogation room as we speak. He's nervous. I can see it in his eyes. -_ **JC**

* * *

><p>"Freak? Are you okay? You've gone a little green."<p>

Sherlock cleared his throat, ignoring Sally's remark and muttered something else before seating himself down in front of Max. He didn't dare look him in the eye.

"It _is_ you," Max said, his voice suddenly keen and interested, "You're that guy who solves the crimes on TV. How did you know my mum and dad?"

"Why don't we get some questions out of the way first?" Sally eyed Sherlock warily, "Tell us exactly what happened when you got home."

Sherlock watched as Max started talking, his slightly chapped lips seemed to move awkwardly as if he was struggling to open his mouth. There were bruises decorating his lips, and even more on his wrists. A normal person would just think it was from the impact of the explosion; he'd been thrown backwards, obviously there'd be some cuts and bruises somewhere. But these bruises weren't from the accident.

Sherlock could deduct it straight away.

There were deep imprints in his left wrist; he'd been tied up or from the marking on his skin, he'd been handcuffed and tightly as well. Bruises from his lip to his jawline; he'd been punched repeatedly. Some were old, some were new; the last blow had been swung probably about nine or ten hours ago. He kept crossing and un crossing his legs, he was ucomfortable with the way he sat, possibly because he'd been yelled at all his life to sit properly. He was socially awkward around people; he hadn't looked Sally once in the eye since he'd started talking. He stared at the table or the wall or somewhere where he didn't meet her gaze. But the biggest give away was that he spoke about his dad through gritted teeth.

Sherlock knew an abused child when he saw one.

"How long has he been hitting you?" he said while Sally was still in mid sentence.

Max stared at him, right in the eyes this time, looking horrified.

"What?"

"How long has he been hitting you?"

"I don't know what you're-"

"Where did you get those bruises?"

"...I fell...the_ explosion_-"

"You fell on your _back,_ Max. I can tell. You can't sit up properly because you might have a fractured spine and you've just had stitches in the back of your head. You don't get bruises on your mouth from falling on your back, any fool knows that. So please answer my question, how long has your father been hitting you?"

"I think we're done here," Sally pushed back her chair, "Interview terminated at-"

"How long has he been hitting you Max? How long has he been handcuffing you to your bed? Wondering how I worked that out?" Sherlock loved this part, "Those imprints on your wrist, he's been tying you up like an animal. Why? Because you're trying to escape from him that's why, so he decides to keep you under lock and key. How many times does he swing a punch at you? Judging by those bruises I'd say, hmm, about three to four times a day. Did your mother ever say anything? No, she was too afraid. Maybe he hit her as well. Who knows, he's capable of a lot."

"That's _enough,_" Sally had a warning tone to her voice.

"Your nails have been cut recently. Right down to the skin. Either you love causing yourself enduring pain or someone else did them for you. He can't stand long nails can he? 'Girl's nails' he calls them. Why does a boy need nails anyway? They only get in the way when he's trying to defend himself."

"I said that's _enough_!" Sally had her hand on Sherlock's shoulder, her fingers digging into his coat.

"You never look anyone in the eye unless you're forced to, because it's bad to look people in the eye isn't it? He feels threatened whenever you look him in the eye so he tells you not to - I'll rephrase that - he _forces_ you not to. Maximilian, interesting name‚ means_ 'the greatest'_ because he wants you to be great in life doesn't he? He expects so much from you. The dried powder on your fingertips suggest you paint. But he doesn't like you painting does he? Another excuse to knock some teeth out-"

"I _mean_ it freak! This interview is over!"

"Why do you let him hurt you Max? Because you feel that _you're_ the one at fault. He's got you thinking it's all your doing hasn't he? Because that's how he works. I should have known; he's still the foul tempered beast he always was-"

"How do you know?!" Max suddenly stood up, his hands gripping the table until they turned white. He shook, tears finding their way to his eyes and dropping onto the table surface below.

Sherlock stood as well, looking into those sky blue eyes that screamed, _Tell __me, tell me!_

"Because he did the same thing to me."

He rolled up his sleeve and revealed a pattern of old wounds that trailed from his elbow to his shoulder. He'd told John that they were from fights he'd had as a child. That wasn't exactly a lie.

Max looked as if he was about to faint.

"No..." he said quietly, taking a step away from the detective, "You're not...I don't have a...you _can't _be..."

"He was going to call _me_ Maximilian," Sherlock said quietly, stepping towards to trembling teen, "He wanted me to be a violinist. He expected so much from me. But then he started drinking. He still drinks doesn't he Max?"

Max's face was as white as paper.

"You're not..."

"It's ironic," Sherlock laughed as he stood only centimeters away from the boy, "I used to _beg_ for a baby brother."

It was then that Max felt the feeling in his legs give way and Sherlock caught him before he tumbled to the floor. Sally watched, struck dumb, as Sherlock began running his fingers through that soft, dark hair.

"It's okay..." the detective allowed the bitter tears to run down his face, "It's okay. The monster's gone. I'm here..."

* * *

><p>Jacklyn watched from outside the interrogation room, as the drama unfurled inside. When Sherlock had sunk to the ground, cradling his younger brother, she whipped out her phone and texted Moriarty.<p>

_The cat's in the bag. -_ **JC**


	15. Lestrade: Master babysitter

"He's your _what_?"

Sherlock winced at John's sudden outburst of surprise. Mind you, this was the

reaction he was expecting.

"My brother."

John shook his head in disbelief.

"Sherlock, why didn't you just tell me?"

Sherlock looked surprised "Well‚ I thought you'd be-"

"That I'd be what? Angry? Shocked? _Ashamed_ of you? Jesus Sherl, you're supposed to be able to trust me!"

"Do you think it was _easy_ for me?" Sherlock could feel his temper rising, "I just didn't want to jump to conclusions incase I was wrong"

"You should know by now Sherlock, you're hardly ever wrong."

Sherlock sighed and leaned back against the wall, watching his younger brother who was still in the reception area from the window. A fellow police officer had her arm around him, helping him swallow water from a glass. His hands were visibly shaking.

"That poor kid..." Sherlock whispered.

"Where's he going to go?" John was suddenly intrigued.

"I don't know. Maybe he has family living somewhere, I have no idea."

"Well, I'm sure he'll be okay."

"I hope so."

At that moment, Anderson came in with Sally behind him. They both looked a little nervy and avoided looking Sherlock directly in the eye when they spoke.

"He's still in shock," Sally closed the door behind her, "That was some performance freak. I was almost impressed."

John rolled his eyes, but Sherlock was in no mood for Sally Donovan's smugness at this moment in time.

"_Performance_? Is that what you call it?"

John's eyes widened, sensing an upcoming fight, "Sherlock..."

"Oh, don't bother standing up for her John. Doesn't matter how serious the situation is, you always have some sly comment to make don't you, Donavon? Do you _enjoy_ making other's feel rotten about themselves or do you actually get a kick out of being a heartless bitch?"

John shifted awkwardly, waiting for Sally's retaliation. Her eyes flickered for a moment, mouth trembling as she fought to say something in return. To everyone's surprise, she just folded her arms, calming herself.

"I'm sorry‚ _Sherlock..._" she gritted her teeth but carried on undeterred, "You're right, what I said was unprofessional as well as unacceptable. There, I apologise."

Sherlock, although satisfied by Sergeant Donovan's reluctant apology, instantly narrowed his eyes at both her and Anderson, "How long have you known?"

She frowned, "Known wha-?"

"About my dad‚ how long? You knew it was his house that was blown up this morning but you didn't have the nerve to tell me. So how long?"

Anderson blushed slightly and started nibbling the dry skin on his lip. Sally avoided the detective's cold glare.

"Lestrade said-"

"I should have known," Sherlock almost laughed, "Can't ever keep a secret can he?"

"Lestrade said he'd been giving you a hard time and for us to back off a little," Sally finished, "When we found out it was his house‚ we didn't know how you'd react."

"So you decided to bottle it up and wait for me to find out myself?"

"Of course not-"

"Just another excuse to bully me. Sherlock Holmes, a freak whose father used to beat the living daylights out of him. Let's all have one big laugh."

Sally frowned at him, "...Lestrade didn't say anything about..."

Sherlock suddenly felt their eyes on him. Anderson's biting got harder, until there was a small dot of blood forming on his bottom lip. Sally had paled a little. The detective fought to redeem himself.

"I have more important things to worry about. I'd stop biting my lip if I were you Anderson, your mouths dripping blood. Now if you don't mind, I've got two children to go home to. Coming John?"

* * *

><p>As soon as Sherlock knocked on the door of 221B, it swung open and Lestrade stood in the doorway with both Harriet and Benedict in each arm. He seemed unharmed, though his face was slightly decorated with violet paint and he had small blue handprints trailing up his shirt. Harriet and Benedict also had paint on each of their cheeks so they looked like mini savages. Sherlock felt his anger for Lestrade almost giving away his secret slowly melt away as he saw another light to the chief of police; a more gentle, caring side.<p>

"Evening," Lestrade said casually, allowing Harriet to suck at his jumper.

"Did everything go okay?" John walked in to find James on the floor with Martin, both of them having a staring contest. The flat was surprisingly in good shape; despite the paints which lay sprawled across the kitchen table and the fact Gladstone now had yellow patches all over his fur. But that couldn't be helped.

"Yeah, everything was fine," Lestrade handed Harriet to Sherlock, "The twins got a bit bored and tried to decapitate one of Harriet's toys but I managed to deter them with some face painting."

Sherlock blinked as Martin gave up trying to stare James out and instead began tugging at his trouser leg, wanting to be held as well. The twins were completely identical; the same greenish eyes, dark hair, fair skin, content expression. They reminded Sherlock of a miniature Lestrade. They were going to be policemen when they were older.

"Thanks Greg. We owe you one," said John as he did his best to get the yellow paint out of Gladstone's fur.

"Any time," Greg glanced down at the twins again, "Alright you two, let's get you home. You both need a bath _pronto_."

* * *

><p>"You know Sherlock," said John that night as they sat watching crap TV with Harriet and James spread across their laps, "I think Lestrade will be a handy babysitter for the future."<p>

Sherlock glanced down at Harriet and James, who were both fast asleep, their cheeks still tinted with the stubborn flicks of paint that wouldn't budge from the bath water. He smiled.

"Yes, but next time hide the paints. Bath time was not pleasant today. Honestly, I've never known anyone so reluctant to get clean."

"I thought Harriet and James took it quite well."

"I was talking about Gladstone."


	16. Black Cat

**I'm sorry it's been so long! Due to snow, my landline and internet has failed, so I've had to resort to writing these at school :/ There goes my education**

* * *

><p>"<em>Well<em>?" Moriarty didn't bother turning around as he sat at his desk in his room.

Jacklyn smirked, pacing up to him in her scarlet heels.

"Everything went according to plan. He's found his younger brother, now all we have to do is wait for daddy Holmes to wake up and tell him where Sherlock lives"

Moriarty pondered, his fingers gently rubbing through his black kitten's fur. The kitten had grown up quickly and was already a keen climber. Jacklyn's owl rested itself on her shoulder, eyeing the tiny savage warily. Moriarty sighed.

"It's not enough"

This was not the answer Jacklyn had been expecting and her eyebrows knitted slightly.

"Sherlock Holmes has only one weakness" Moriarty drummed his fingertips against the surface of the table, "Something that would rip his heart right out of him if he ever lost it"

The frown remained on Jacklyn's face, "What could possibly-?"

"His_ children_, Jacklyn" Moriarty looked at her with dark eyes, "That's what makes him tick. That boy and that little girl, who rightfully belong to_ me_"

"You never said anything about children" Jacklyn suddenly seemed uncomfortable, a feeling she rarely felt.

"It's quite simple really. You continue pretending to be a junkie, ask nice Mr Holmes to let you help with the case and then get all the information I need to get him where I want him"

Jacklyn wet her lips, as if she was hesitating.

"Jacky…" Moriarty leant forward, his eyes suddenly narrowing, "…are you doubting me?"

She straightened up "I don't know the meaning of the word"

"Because if you are…"

"You underestimate me Mr Moriarty. You should know by now that I don't back out on a job"

Jim was amused by the girl's irritation, "Well let's hope that it stays that way"

Annoyed, Jacklyn reached for the handle of the door, but paused when a thought came to her mind.

"Have you named him yet?"

Jim blinked, "Named what?"

"The kitten?"

Jim peered down at the black ball of fur sprawled across his lap and smirked, "It doesn't need a name. It's a black cat. So that's what it's called. Black Cat"

Jacklyn gave him a puzzled look, before turning the handle and leaving in a huff.


	17. His last laugh

"_Yeah_ Harriet" John said as his little girl sat happily in the trolley seat in front of him, "You're out shopping with daddy aren't you?"

Harriet Holmes loved shopping. The atmosphere of the supermarket never failed to put her in a good mood and whenever she was pulling a tantrum at home, John would simply put her in the car and take her out to Sainsbury's, even when they didn't need to buy anything.

James tended to stay home with Sherlock and help him with his experiments. Well, he didn't exactly _help_. Sherlock would simply ask him for the items and he'd hand them to him, being careful not to spill them of course. However, after creating several small explosions, the little one's eyes began to droop and eventually he was asleep on the kitchen table, curled up like a little mouse. Sherlock decided to settle him down for the day – a short nap would do him some good – and he put him in his cot upstairs.

Sherlock was just clearing up after his experiment when there was a knock at the door. It couldn't have been John back already; he'd left only twenty minutes ago – unless he'd forgotten his wallet again.

He took off his rubber gloves with his teeth as he went to open the door, hoping the knocking hadn't woken James.

As soon as the door opened, he met a pair of cold eyes.

"Hello Sherlock"

Sherlock stiffened, his hands gripping the door. Alistair Holmes had suffered some terminal injuries due to the blast. The side of his face was half burnt, making his skin look like raw meat. He looked thinner; obviously he didn't like hospital food. He walked with a crutch now; he'd lost all the feeling in his left leg and now had a permanent limp.

He walked similar to John.

Sherlock clenched his fists. How _dare_ this monster remind him of John? He was nothing like John.

"So this is where you've been hiding" he let himself in, limping towards the table, "I thought you would have chosen a less tackier place"

Sherlock remained at the door, leaving it open in false hope that he could still get his father to leave.

"Some are more modest than others" he muttered like a sulking child

"Where's your pet?"

"_John_ is out"

"Taken the kids with him?"

Sherlock's eyes flickered to the stairs and he licked his lips hesitantly

"Yes"

"Shame. Would have been nice for the little tykes to see their granddad"

"You're nothing to do with them"

"Oh but I _am_ Sherly, I am" he sat himself down on a chair, both hands on his crutch, "You may not like it, but they're _my _blood too. You can't keep them away for long"

"You think so?"

"I know so"

There was a tense pause and Sherlock quietly closed the door, realising he would have to play the right cards in order to get his father out. Alistair Holmes was a clever one. Where else did the consulting detective get it from?

"You always were difficult"

This interrupted Sherlock's train of thought and his eyes narrowed towards the elder man.

"All those bloody deductions. Always had to show off. Someone had to keep you in line"

"That's your excuse is it?"

"Don't act like a wounded princess, you were begging for it"

"I wouldn't beg _you_ for anything"

Those cold eyes narrowed. This didn't discourage Sherlock.

"What about Max? Did he _beg_ for it too?"

Alistair laughed, "Max? You mean Maximilian? All I ever wanted was for him to be successful. Get a proper job in parliament or something like that. Instead he wants to waste his life painting pictures. So I-"

"So you decided beating the crap out of him was the best answer? What were you trying to do, _convert_ him?"

"He's too much like you Sherlock. Too independent. You always were reluctant to play the violin"

"And whose fault is that?"

A sour laugh escaped those ageing lips "Come, come Sherlock. It wasn't all that bad. We had our fun times. Don't tell me you can't remember" he stood, limping over towards the shorter man in an intimidating way, "Remember how I used to make you scream?"

Sherlock's lips tightened, fragments of his childhood flashing before his eyes. Of sitting on a bed with his shorts pulled down to his ankles whilst those footsteps echoed across the stairway like thunder. The hands would always be cold and when they touched him it felt like a ghost had crept up his spine and nestled itself into his body.

And then he would scream.

"Do you remember how I used to _touch_ you Sherlock?" the man's eyes were burning with satisfaction of the upcoming fear in the detective's eyes, "You always hated that. Could never keep still"

"Stop it"

"Never did do as you were told. Never have, never will"

"_Stop_ it!"

"You still remember that touch don't you?" and that scarred hand reached out towards Sherlock's face and the dark haired man could feel himself being pulled back into that disgusting, heartless world.

He blocked the hand before it reached his face and whispered with as much resentment as he could.

"Why don't you just do everyone a favour and go and kill yourself"

In those split seconds, two arms had grabbed him and he was pushed back against the wall, meeting the cold eyes that sent a shiver down his soul. The accident had not taken the strength out of those broad arms and Alistair chuckled slightly, though his grip on Sherlock sent pain down his wounded leg.

"See what I mean?" Sherlock could smell gin in his breath, "Never do as your told"

"You're drunk" Sherlock whispered, though it came out as a pathetic whimper

"Only just. Had a small one just after I got out of that hellhole. Now I feel like some fun"

"Bit of a rich thing to do straight after your wife dies"

"Phyllis? She was too young for me. Not quite fresh enough"

He suddenly pulled Sherlock forwards and pushed him onto the kitchen table so he was on his back with his hands pinned down, no form of escape possible.

"You always liked this position Sherly" a harsh laugh echoed though the walls of the flat

Sherlock whimpered again, silently cursing himself for being so useless at this critical point in his life. Where the hell was that doctor when he needed him? A tongue suddenly ran across his bottom lip, sending a burning feeling throughout his jaw. The man's arm tightened around his waist, making him feel like he was paralysed to the table. The cold air hit Sherlock like a brick wall; making him shiver. Fear was an emotion he rarely felt. But now here, cold and with no one there to save him, he felt the tears begin to run out from the sides of his eyes.

His eyes widened even further when a small cry was heard from upstairs.

James.

Alistair heard it too. He craned his head upwards, to the door. Sherlock saw this as a chance to escape and the sudden thought that his son might be in danger made him all the more determined.

"My son is crying" he said carefully, "Please, let me go to him"

The man laughed "You really think I'll let you get away that easily? You're smarter than that Sherlock"

"If I don't go to him, someone else will. They'll find us. Mrs Hudson…"

"That crippled old woman won't be any bother to us"

His hands started pulling Sherlock's trousers down his waist. The sudden exposion drove madness to the detective's eyes and his teeth sank themselves into Alistair's bottom lip, tearing a piece of flesh away. The elder man retaliated by smashing him across the face, almost breaking his jaw.

"Little bastard" he muttered, putting a hand over the detective's mouth to stop him from screaming.

Sherlock could feel himself sinking.

He'd never felt so weak.

He had never felt so _powerless_.

His childhood – it flashed before him, blinding him. A gust of air swept along his lower thighs and he stifled a scream.

Then all of a sudden the door was open.

And a shot rang out through the air.

When Sherlock opened his eyes, Alistair was still above him, but a hole was visible in the middle of his head. His eyes were stiff, staring down at him lifelessly.

He'd had his last laugh.

Sherlock shuffled away from the body, pushing it onto the floor so it lay in a crippled heap at the leg of the table. He pulled his trousers up with shaking hands, fingers slipping as he adjusted the button on his jeans.

He looked up, wandering who on _earth_ had managed to be there in the right place at the right time.

Probably the most unlikely person imaginable.

But it was him without a doubt.

And even when Sherlock had pushed the fear from his eyes, Mycroft Holmes was still there in front of him, his revolver stained red in his hand.


	18. Confessing

"_Military_ school?" Sherlock let out a shaky laugh, "You're joking"

"I thought you would have been able to deduct it" Mycroft wiped the small dots of blood from the barrel of the gun with a handkerchief, "You always seem to work out where I've been and what I've been doing"

"I suppose I was so angry I didn't want to think you had an excuse"

"Father thought it would be able to toughen me up. I suppose he wasn't completely wrong"

Sherlock sat cross legged on the kitchen table, keeping as far away from his father's corpse as he could. James was asleep in his arms, undisturbed and oblivious to the chaos that had just occurred. Sherlock's eyes rested upon him. When he spoke, his voice was dry.

"What are we-?"

"Don't worry. I'll take care of it" Mycroft put the gun back into his front pocket, "I always do after all"

Sherlock nodded, deciding now was not a good time to decline his brother's help. He still couldn't believe what had happened.

"How could he…? I mean…I can't believe he tried to…"

"It doesn't matter anymore Sherlock, he's gone. You can focus on more important situations now. Moriarty-"

"I know about Moriarty" Sherlock's voice was dull and lifeless, "He's changed locations. He's not alone anymore"

"He is rumoured to have an associate. Their identity is unknown at the moment but we're looking into it. That's what I came to speak to you about. Before…" he trailed off, deciding it was better for them not to relive the gruesome events that had occurred the previous hour, "I will let you know if we receive anymore information on their whereabouts. That's all I can do for you for now"

Sherlock nodded again. James snored gently in his arms. He didn't realise it but at that moment Mycroft was standing over him and gently touching the sleeping toddler with one finger.

"Such a remarkable likeness. He'll be a detective"

"You always were one for first impressions"

They exchanged a forced laugh. Mycroft diverted his attention from his sleeping nephew to the crippled body that lay on the floor before them.

"I'm sorry" he said, and Sherlock realised that he was talking to him, not the body, "I wish I could have been a better brother to you"

Sherlock shrugged slightly, "No one's perfect"

At that moment the door opened and John came in holding Harriet.

"Hey Sherlock, Harry needs her milk. The shoppings still in the car so…" his eye fell upon the body, "…Jesus, what...?"

Mycroft barely noticed John's presence. He was writing something down on his notepad and he tore out a page, folding it up.

"He commited suicide" he said to Sherlock, "He couldn't live with his injuries. He left his suicide note to his son in his pocket" he stuffed the piece of paper into the dead man's front pocket and nodded at his younger brother, "Alright?"

"You've always been a good liar"

"And you've always been a bad one" Mycroft put his hand on the doorknob, "There are people on the way to dispose of the body" he nodded at John, "Sorry for ruining your carpet"

After Mycroft had left, John stared at the body of Alastair Holmes in horror, covering Harriet's eyes protectively.

"Sherlock, what the hell-?"

"He tried to rape me"

"He _what_?"

"He tried to rape me" Sherlock replied, infuriatingly calmly, "There. Now you know. I was sexually abused as a child. The great Sherlock Holmes has a weakness. Now you know me for real"

John noticed the hole in the dead man's head, "Did you-?"

"Mycroft" Sherlock replied vaguely.

"I'd have done the same"

Sherlock smiled "I know you would have"

"Doesn't it bother you? That he's just…._there_?"

"What? I've seen dead bodies before. It's part of my job"

"I know but…"

"Don't dwell on it John. What's happened has happened"

At that moment, there was a knock at the door. John opened it, hoping it wasn't Mrs Hudson otherwise she'd have a heart attack.

"Jacklyn" he sounded surprised, "Is everything alright?"

Jacklyn certainly resembled a junkie. Her hair was greasy, falling over her shoulders limply. She wore a grey tracksuit which was too big for her; her chewed nails were stained black and her shoes had holes in them. She looked a little stoned, or so John thought.

"I wanted to see Mr Holmes" Jacklyn peered around the side of the door behind her screen of dark hair, "I think I came at a bad time" she glanced at the body on the floor.

"Yes" Sherlock's voice had faint amusement, "Yes you did"

"I'm here because I think I might have some useful information on the Moriarty case"

Sherlock stiffened at that name. John was intrigued.

"What sort of information?"

"I've been getting these" she deleved into her pocket and pulled out several sheets of paper, "I'm certain they're from him"

Sherlock took the letters and examined them. They reeked of cat blood.

"Has he sent anything else to you?"

She shook her head, "But I will keep you updated. I would very much like to help out on this case"

"Let us know if you receive anymore of these" Sherlock quickly gave them back to her before he threw up, "Until then, keep your head down. He may go after you if he realises your helping us"

"I just want him behind bars"

"It wont be as easy as that. But thank you for your time. I'll let you know of any progress"

* * *

><p><em>Did you do it? Did he take the bait?<em> **– JM**

_Almost, I'm still reeling him in_ _– _**JC**

_What about the father? Where is he?_ **– JM**

_You might want to sit down_ **– JC**


	19. A good case

"_DEAD_?" Moriarty's arm flew out, knocking everything off his desk, "How can he be _dead_?"

Jacklyn was unfazed by the man's outburst, "It seems he was assassinated in some way"

"By Holmes?"  
>"The other one, his brother. I saw him leave"<p>

Moriarty growled and started pacing. Jacklyn had never seen him so angry.

"You _said_ you were watching them" he said in a low growl

"It seems they caught up with me"

"Do they know of your identity?"  
>"They still think I'm a junkie"<p>

"Did you ask about the investigation?"

"They said they'd keep me updated"

"Good" Jim went calm and rested his hands on the desk, "That's good"

The silence that followed was a tense and confusing one, as Jacklyn peered anxiously at Moriarty's face as his went into his own world of endless pondering. Words spun around his head. Words, words, words…

_Actions spoke louder than words _

"I know what to do" Jim came out from behind his desk and reached for his coat.

"Where are you going?"

"It's all the part of the _plan_, dear Jacklyn" his voice was sparked with mockery, "All we need is a little diversion. Sherlock Holmes loves a good case. So a good case is what we'll give him"


	20. Anderson the CHEAT

**WARNING: Contains rape**

* * *

><p>This Jacklyn person was becoming suspicious.<p>

Sherlock could sense it. She was all too keen to help out on the investigation. Of course, she may just be wanting to get justice for her dead neighbours, but the fact that she was almost always completely stoned made that idea seem a little doubtful. Sherlock lay on the sofa in his concentrating position; flat on his back with his hands pressed together as if he was praying. He'd used four nicotine patches this time – it was a four patch problem. Everything was coming at him too quickly and the detective found he could not keep up with Moriarty, his long lost brother and his two children all at once.

It was a darker night than usual. There were no stars. Something was about to happen. He could tell.

He heard the letterbox from downstairs and didn't move. He already knew who his letter was going to be from. He ignored Mrs Hudson as she came and sorted them out for him, talking nonstop about first and second class stamps. When she'd gone, he flicked through them thoughtlessly. Bills, bills, bills and surprise, surprise. A letter written in cat blood. He wandered what taunting message Moriarty had for him this time. He opened the letter in disgust, wishing his nemesis would write in simple biro rather than do his best to make the consulting detective want to regurgitate.

_**Scotland Yard. The lab. I've left a little present for you.**_

And at the bottom, in much smaller writing.

_**He was a lot harder to shag than you were**_

Sherlock felt the red drain out of his cheeks then come rushing back.

**_Christ, surely he hadn't..._**

"John! We need to get down to Scotland Yard _now_!"

* * *

><p>Sherlock flew into the station so quickly; he almost knocked Sergeant Donovan right over.<p>

"Careful freak! Where are you _going_?"

"Is anyone in the lab?"

"Why do you want to-?"

"Is _anyone_ in the lab?" Sherlock gripped her at the sides, almost shaking her. This was the first time Sergeant Donovan had ever been touched by Sherlock Holmes and the sudden physical contact made her shiver.

"A-Anderson…" her eyes went wide with shock.

Sherlock let the name sink in and released the sergeant, heading immediately towards the lab. John struggled to keep up with him.

"Sherlock, wait! Explain to me again what he wrote"

"He wants _blood_ John" Sherlock didn't even glance back at the doctor, "I just hope I'm wrong about this"

He threw open the doors of the lab and searched around for any sign of life, but there was nothing but deadly silence. And the smell of cat blood; so much cat blood. Sherlock glanced up and saw written upon the wall in crimson red;

**CHEAT**

And when he glanced at the floor, there was more red stuff staining the tiles.

No…that wasn't cat blood. It was too fresh.

He followed the trail of red, looking over the side of the autopsy table and suddenly all the feeling went from his legs. He took out his torch and shone a light over the figure in front of him, just to make sure he was right. John had never seen his arms shake so violently. A glance from the detective meant he should come forward. And when he did he wished he hadn't.

"Is he…?"

"No" Sherlock's voice was as shaky as his hands, "Not yet"

He bent down to Anderson, who was slumped half conscious against the wall. There was a lot of blood around his head, dangerous amounts oozing from a hole in his skull. Sherlock removed his scarf and handed it to John.

"Put pressure on the wound. If he loses too much blood, we'll lose him"

Whilst John tended to his patient, Sherlock examined the dripping red words on the wall. **CHEAT**. It meant something. Anderson had been unfaithful to his wife; almost everyone knew of his secret relationship with Sergeant Donovan since Sherlock opened his big mouth. But it was too... _simple_ for Moriarty. There had to be something else to it. A secret code perhaps?

"Sherlock, he's talking"

Sherlock glanced down and saw Anderson's eyes were open, but only just. He stooped to his level, shining the torch in his eye.

"Are you alright?" he asked, maybe a little harsher than he intended to. After all, Anderson was not his favourite person in the world.

"Hurts…" Anderson's voice was so quiet; Sherlock could barely hear him and with his keen sense of hearing, this was worrying.

"Is your vision blurred?" he tried desperately to keep the man conscious, "_Concentrate_ Anderson, _is_ your vision blurred?"

"He said it wouldn't hurt…"

These words made Sherlock pause. He let them soak in his mind for a second. He prayed that Anderson was just in shock and that the blow to his head was making him talk rubbish.

"Try to keep breathing"

"It felt…like he was…_tearing_ me open…"

"Do you feel pain from anywhere else?"

Anderson didn't reply but his eyes glanced downwards to his private area. Sherlock followed his gaze and all of a sudden he felt sick. Stains of red lingered all over Anderson's crotch. It stank of blood. He gently touched the fabric and his fingertip came back sticky, nasty, awful. He wretched but managed to keep the vomit behind his mouth long enough to wipe the trace of semen away onto the floor.

"Jesus…"

Sherlock turned to see Sally standing at the door, the colour drained from her face. He suddenly came defensive, wishing to grant Anderson some dignity by getting rid of her prying eyes.

"Get help" he said quietly

Sally hesitated a second too long for his liking.

"Don't just _stand_ there, get help!"

For the first time in her life, Sergeant Sally Donavon did as Sherlock Holmes said.

"Go with her John" he added and the doctor immediately knew he wanted to be alone with Anderson, probably for personal reasons. He got up and went after Sally, not glancing back at the consulting detective whose face was only inches away from the other man's. Anderson was deathly pale and looked near dead. He removed the now bloodied scarf.

"Anderson…" Sherlock kept his voice low, "Stay with me"

"Bet you can't wait…" breathing seemed to be difficult for the forensic scientist at that moment in time, "…to tell everyone…"

He leant forward so he could talk into Sherlock's ear, the few words he only wanted the consulting detective to hear at that very moment.

"…Peter Anderson…shagged by a _guy_…"

Sherlock turned away, trying not to let his mind wander back into that painful world. All of a sudden he could feel the hands touching him again. And Anderson…as much as he despised him he would never wish anything so gruesome and indecent upon him, or on _anybody_ for that matter. He turned back, but by then Anderson had already passed out and he leaned him back against the wall to make him more comfortable.

And he sat by him, until the paramedics arrived, he sat by him like a dog that couldn't be moved.


	21. Where did we go wrong?

"I didn't think Jim had it in him" John said more to the wall than Sherlock, "I mean…I just didn't think…"

"It's alright John, not many people do"

Sherlock's dry humour didn't faze the doctor. He chose to break the awkward silence by attempting to caress Gladstone, who was lying at his feet trying to distract him. He responded by sticking his wet nose against his knuckles.

"But really…_Anderson_? I mean, he's the last person you'd expect to get…"

He trailed off, realising how thoughtless that sounded and decided it was best to stop talking. Sherlock was too preoccupied trying to work out **CHEAT**. It had to mean something. Something.

**C-H-E-A-T**

_Something, something…._

His phone interrupted his train of thought.

"It's Lestrade" he muttered, reading the text, "Anderson's come round"

"Do you want me to go down with you?"

"No, stay here with the children. I'll go myself"

* * *

><p>Sherlock hated hospitals. They smelt of death. They made deductions spiral before his eyes. He was almost relieved when he found Lestrade outside a cubicle waiting for him.<p>

"How is he?" the question came out too dull.

The chief of police took a deep breath "Stable"

"Can I see him?"

"I suppose, but don't push him. He's just been…it'll be hard for him to give you any information at this point, he doesn't remember much"

"I know" for a second Sherlock looked sympathetic, "I know"

Anderson looked like what you would call "death warmed up". He was white as paper; there were marks and bruises all over his forearms where Moriarty had obviously fought to restrain him. There were several stitches in his head and a scar now lingered across his right cheekbone, obviously left there as a reminder of what happened that torturous night. Sherlock sighed at the sight of him.

"Are you awake?"

Those dark eyes opened, all the colour seemed to be drained out of them.

"Just…"

"Do you remember anything?"

Anderson's voice was low and gentle "…he covered my mouth…said he would cut my throat if I made a noise. And then he…"

Sherlock nodded, not wanting him to go into graphic detail of the incident. Anderson let out a strained laugh.

"Damn bastard said I was _tight_"

"Well, we all know that's not true"

"I'm still waiting for you to make some snide comment about it"

"Believe it or not, I have nothing to say"

Anderson shifted slightly, making himself more comfortable, "Never thought I'd hear it. Sherlock Holmes has nothing to say. The world must be ending"

"Have you seen Sally yet?"

"I don't want to see her"

"She's worried"

"I can't let her see me like this. I look like shit"

"No change there then"

"How's the baby?"

"She's learning to walk"

"Lucky that I was there when you were conceiving her"

"I thought you were a forensic scientist, not a midwife"

"When I got your call, I thought you were winding me up. You sounded like you were dying"

"I suppose I owe you one then"

"Yeah, you do"

Sherlock coughed awkwardly, feeling his cheeks heat up a little as he pushed the words from his mouth.

"Anderson…you're going to need to be tested"

"Yeah I know"

"I know it's going to be difficult-"

Anderson grunted "What would _you_ know about this kind of thing?"

"You'd be surprised"

A flash of guilt spread across those colourless eyes, "Sorry"

"The world really must be ending. Peter Anderson apologising to Sherlock Holmes. Now _that's_ Armageddon"

"If you dare tell anyone-"

"I know, I know"

Anderson suddenly coughed and Sherlock could see a drop of blood escape from the side of his mouth. It was wiped away quickly.

"Maybe I should stop speaking now"

"Does it hurt to talk?"

"A little"

"Rest then. We need you with a voice if you're going to give us a statement"

He went to open the door, only to be stopped when that dry voice started speaking again, lower and weaker than ever.

"Do you remember when we were kids?"

A sigh came from the consulting detective. The crippled man went on.

"We used to chase your dog around the moors all day. And when we were bored we'd go to the river and sit on the bridge. You always told me you wished you didn't have to go home. But you never told me why"

He could tell he was getting at Sherlock but didn't press the matter. Consciousness was already failing him.

"Where did we go wrong eh?"

Sherlock snorted, "You fell in love and I turned out to be a high functioning sociopath"

"Just remember what's said in this room, stays in this room"

"You have my word"

"Alright. Thanks frea- I mean, Sherlock…"


	22. Love in cat language

**A/N: I'm sorry I've been absent for so long. Someone decided to give me the plague and I've been sneezing for a week (sniff) In future, I will try to avoid buses full of infected citizens who don't know the basic concept of personal hygiene. But enough dillydally. I've written an extra long chapter for all my herbe fleurs as compensation for such a long wait and to keep you on your toes. Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>Moriarty really had to hand it to himself. He was a genius. He really was.<p>

Only _he_ knew how to keep Sherlock Holmes on his toes. And God, how he _loved_ torturing the consulting detective. It made him feel like a child on Easter Sunday.

But now he was bored. And he would remain bored until Sherlock Holmes cracked the code. But Moriarty hadn't made it easy for him. **CHEAT**. It would take days to work out, maybe weeks. He sighed. He really needed to start making these puzzles easier. He flicked on the radio to distract himself. A familiar tune came on.

_Guess I'd rather hurt than feel nothing at all_

_It's a quarter after one, I'm all alone and I need you now_

He growled and quickly turned it off. Couldn't he do anything without it reminding him of Sherlock? That song, that bloody song. He flopped himself onto his bed and ignored Black Cat, who was kneading his claws irritably into his chest.

"Why do they do that?" he muttered, trying to prise the kitten away from his best Westwood suit, "What do they get out of sticking their claws into someone's skin?"

"He's saying he loves you" Jacklyn didn't take her eyes off the article she was reading. News of the bombings were already spreading, which was a cause for concern. Sherlock Holmes seemed a clever one. She just hoped that Moriarty knew what he was doing.

"He has a funny way of showing it. Little bugger" he gave up trying to remove the animal and allowed it to continue pleasuring itself, "What's in the news?"

"The police are onto you"

"_Us_ Jacklyn, we're doing this together remember"

"It wasn't my idea for you to go and shag that forensic scientist was it?" she kept her eyes glued to the paper, ignoring the icy glare that fell upon her from the other side of the room, "And yes, I _am_ questioning your actions"

Moriarty wet his lips; Jacklyn Clockson was a brave one. That or very stupid. He guessed it was the latter. But there was something about her behaviour that amused him futher.

**_Dilated pupils_**

**_Subconscious biting of the lips_**

**_Small patches of sweat forming on brow_**

"Jacklyn…you're aroused"

Jacklyn's cheeks changed colour.

"What makes you say that?" she asked, her voice an octave higher than usual.

Moriarty laughed, "No need to be embarrassed. I'm flattered. Besides, it's not like you're the first one"

Jacklyn could feel herself growing more uncomfortable, "What's that supposed to mean?"

Moriarty didn't reply. He removed Black Cat from his shirt front, letting the kitten drop to the floor and moved so he was looking down at her.

"Do you love me Jacklyn?"

This question came out too fast. Jacklyn could feel the colour draining from her face, "Of course not! We're partners! Nothing else…"

"I've seen the way you look at me. With those eyes of yours. Admit it. You want me, you want to…_feel_ me"

This statement was more than Jacklyn could bear.

"I think I should leave" she made a move to the door but was stopped by a hand which seemed to be made of iron. It pushed her against the wall, making any form of movement almost impossible.

"Why go?" the voice was cold yet warm at the same time, like the mixture of ice and fire, "We have all the time in the world"

He leaned forward and kissed her, a small brush across the lips which told her this wasn't a passionate gesture. It was more of a threat, a sign of dominance. His arm slid around her waist and tightened, pulling her closer to him so their bodies pressed together. In a quick move his hand was up her top, moving slyly towards her breasts. But then he seemed to change his mind and pulled it out again, dissatisfied. Jacklyn did her best to calm herself but the steady breaths from her so called "partner" made her nervous and she stuttered with the little energy she had left;

"Not here…"

In a sudden forceful move, he had her pressed onto the bed and their eyes were centimeters away from one another. Moriarty's eyes were an open window; there was a story behind them. A history of violence and blood and bitter relationships. A spinning whirlwind of lies and deceit. This was a mistake. But the hot feeling in Jacklyn's lower area silenced her objections. Moriarty was right. She was aroused.

"Is this better?" Jim asked with a mocking smile, enjoying the uncertainty in the girl's face, "Good. I like it as well"

Jacklyn didn't get a chance to reply as a tongue suddenly shoved itself down her throat, almost choking her. It was a wet, disgusting feeling but she found she wanted more and pulled his head closer. Blood suddenly rushed to her head and she felt faint. She grasped his wrists as he attempted to pull her dress to her waist.

"Stop" the order came out harsh and out of character, as if there was suddenly a reversal of roles.

Jim blinked, "What is it?"

"Why me?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Why would you do it with me? I'm not your Sherlock Holmes"

Jim did the unexpected next. He smiled and gently ran his tongue against her bottom lip.

"No, you're not. But you're as good as"

He suddenly began kneading his hands into her chest which made her frown.

"Jim..." this was the first time she'd addressed him so informally, "What are you doing?"

Moriarty smirked, "I'm saying I love you"

He started kissing her again but this action was cut short as his phone beeped. He growled, instantly annoyed and pulled himself off of the bed away from her. Jacklyn sat up, pulling her dress back down, feeling her heart hammer against her chest. She moved her sweaty hair from her eyes and rubbed her brow with the balls of her hand. The warm feeling hadn't gone away. Black Cat hopped up onto the bed and sat himself on her lap, oblivious to the drama that had occurred only moments before. Her hands were shaking when she touched his fur.

"Well that was fun" Moriarty said when he was finally off the phone, "Now it's time to get your sweats on Jacky darling. You need to pay Mr Holmes another little visit"

* * *

><p>"No way…" John's face was a picture of disbelief, "You and <em>Anderson<em>? Childhood friends?"

Sherlock shrugged, in the middle of breaking up a squabble between Martin and James who'd decided to start a fight over a bagel. Lestrade had done the babysitting last time and now that he was out tracking down a car jacker, it was only fair that they repay the favour.

"There's more to it then that" he replied, breaking the bagel in half so the war was cut short, "Much more"

"Do tell"

Sherlock sighed, rubbing his eyes with the balls of his hands, "He was lonely, I was lonely and we both hated our dads. Is that enough?"

"Nope"

"Fine" Sherlock sat himself down, mirroring a lazy cat, "We lived next door to each other. Whenever I needed some company, I'd throw a ball over into his back garden. If it was thrown back, then I knew he was in and that only he was in the house. He always left one of the windows open so I'd let myself in. And he'd always be in his bedroom, hiding in his wardrobe. And we'd just sit in there and talk for hours"

"But why the ball?"

"Lets just say his father didn't like visitors"

"Carry on"

"And then we were teenagers. And we'd hang around his house all day, snorting coke. Sometimes when we were stoned, one thing led to another"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I never did tell you who my first kiss was, did I John?"

The doctor let this statement sink into his mind, then gave Sherlock a double glance.

"No…you and _Anderson_…?"

"It meant nothing John, we were off our heads. And then he met a girl and…"

"And it all went downhill?"

"Yes"

"Does Sally know?"

Sherlock shrugged, "Why do you ask?"

"Well…I'm sure she'd have something to say about it"

"I couldn't care less what she thinks"

"How did Jim find out?"

"Because I was a fool and told him. I was an idiotic child back then and thought I could trust someone who treated me like their own personal dog"

John opened his mouth to say something when a knock at the door interrupted them. He stepped over Benedict - who was studying a sleeping Gladstone very carefully - and opened it to find Jacklyn standing at the door.

"Sorry to bother you" she said to Sherlock after John had invited her in, "But I just wanted to check up on the case"

"We have a lead" Sherlock said carefully, "We believe Moriarty has an accomplice. A female, we presume"

At this, Jacklyn went stiff. Just as Sherlock expected.

"As soon as we find the home of the accomplice, we should find Moriarty. Until then, there's not much we can do"

"I see…" Jacklyn's eyes followed John as he went into the kitchen to make Harriet some milk and she turned her attention to James who had finished his half of the bagel and was heckling Martin for more.

"Are they all yours?"

"No" Sherlock grabbed James before he started a fight and brought him to his lap. He nodded to Harriet, "Just these two"

"Where's their mother?"

"They don't have a mother" he said it so vaguely, she wasn't sure if he was joking.

"They're beautiful children. I wouldn't mind some of my own to be honest"

"What's stopping you?"

"Lack of communication between me and my partner"

Sherlock was suddenly intrigued, "Your _partner_?"

Realising she'd slipped up, Jacklyn caught herself before she fell any furthur, "We met a while ago" she said quickly, "I'm staying at his until the flat is rebuilt. Nothing serious..."

Sherlock's eyes seemed to drill through her, seeking out all the lies but he just nodded.

Jacklyn wet her lips, "If you don't mind me asking" she pushed herself as curiosity had been overwhelming her for weeks, "What is your connection with Mr Moriarty?"

"We have some history" Sherlock then added for more effect, "_Violent_ history"

Jacklyn nodded, "You will catch him, won't you?"

"Only time will tell my dear" Sherlock said and when her back was turned, his expression darkened.

_You don't know what you're in for. He'll chew you up and spit you back out. Don't sell yourself to him Jacklyn. Run while you still can._


	23. Into the Mind Palace

"So you're an artist?"

Max blushed slightly, obviously not used to people recognising his talents, "Yeah, I suppose"

"Do you ever draw people?"

"Only my boyfriend…"

This made Sherlock smile slightly, that must have really pissed his father off when he found out. Two queers in the family, that was all he needed.

"…until Dad found out. And I wasn't allowed to see him again, Dad made sure of that. I've been staying at his since the accident. I'm just glad I don't have to do it in secret anymore"

Footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs from the bedroom so they both went quiet. Almost silently, Max asked one final question.

"Is he really gone?"

Sherlock gave that knowing smile that only a Holmes would understand, "Yes. I'm sure of it"

What escaped Maximilian's lips at that moment was a sigh. Not a sigh of despair but of bitter relief. As soon as John entered the living room, he laughed as his eyes fell upon the Holmes-Watson family being their most artistic selves. Max, sat in John's armchair, was in the middle of a sketch of Sherlock who was sat with the utmost solemnity upon the sofa, whilst Gladstone posed beside his master like an obedient statuette. On the rug, James was silently observing his younger sister, drawing her portait on the Cluedo board John had bought Sherlock for Christmas with a red crayon. His little tongue was sticking out at the side of his mouth, his concentration was so impenetrable he didn't even notice.

"What, and none of you asked to draw_ me_?" John questioned amongst his laughter.

"What do you think?" Max held up the finished drawing of the consulting detective towards John. At the sight of it, John's grin widened.

"It's very realistic. I'm half expecting it to start shooting walls. You did a good job on Gladstone"

"I wasn't planning to draw him. But he started profiling and refused to move"

"You were right John. She's just as stubborn as I am" Sherlock said, glancing at the clock. His face morphed into a frown, "Shouldn't Greg be dropping off the twins by now?"

The smile disappeared from John's lips, "We're having the twins _again_? But it's the weekend"

"It's Greg. Him and the wife are trying again" Sherlock rolled his eyes, "The last thing he needs is two over excited clones turning the place upside down"

John opened his mouth to protest when two small figures behind him, whom he failed to notice, came speeding towards him at near terminal velocity. He did, however, notice when they nearly knocked him over, shouting;

"Uncle John!"

He steadied himself before he fell over, feeling two sets of arms wrap themselves around his knees. He sighed.

"Hello to you too"

"Sorry boys" Lestrade said, coming up the stairs behind them, "But apparently the twins can't wait to see Auntie Sherly"

At this, Sherlock's expression darkened as his head whipped towards the detective inspector, "Are you forgetting our agreement Gregory? You were never to utter that nickname on these premises again"

Lestrade held his hands up in defence and nodded down to the twins, "Their words, not mine"

His attention diverted to Max's drawing whilst Benedict almost crushed James in a hug and Martin shyly handed Harriet a slightly wilted daisy that's he'd found in the street earlier that morning, which resulted in her beaming at him and hugging him tightly.

"I must say, this would sell for a fortune on Ebay" he said, holding the piece of art up to the light, "You draw like a pro"

At this, Max blushed and it was obvious he wasn't used to praise. The conversation was cut by the sound of Lestrade's phone beeping and for a second, he looked surprised.

"Who's it from?" John asked, noticing the look of disbelief that crossed the inspector's face.

"...it's from Sally" the confusion didn't leave his voice, "Apprantely Anderson is out of hospital and wants Sherlock to meet him at the Yard"

"But Greg" Benedict stopped rolling around on the floor with James and began tugging at Lestrade's jeans, "Isn't Andyson the one who called Auntie Sherly bad words?"

"That was a very long time ago Benny" Lestrade grinned sheepishly at Sherlock, "And it's Uncle, remember? Not Greg, uncle"

"Sherl" John said, breaking the ice, "How am I going to be able to manage this lot on my own?"

"I'll help" Max stepped in, "That is…if you want me to"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, "Have you any experience?"

Max scratched the back of his head, "I used to babysit for next door when I was a kid. They were nice" he suddenly went quiet, "They listened…"

The pain got through to Sherlock, "Well it looks like you have another hand on board John" he managed to tug his scarf out of Harriet's grasp before she chewed it apart, "I'll be back in an hour. Put away all the paints, hide the bunsen burners and keep Harriet _away_ from the jam. Kisses everybody - except for you Greg"


	24. In which Sherlock is out of character

"John, do you want to take a break? I can look after them for an hour or two"

"No, no, I'm fine" John insisted, though the stress was making itself obvious in every frown line and every tense muscle.

Max had walked in on the doctor only moments before to find him asleep on the sofa with the four children grudgingly trying to wake him up so he could continue the story he'd been reading them. The pressure of the case plus the weight of looking after the little ones seemed to be taking its toll. After finally shaking John back into consciousness, Max assumed it'd be polite to offer his services and allow John a few minutes rest. The doctor tried to argue but the feeble excuses that poured from him were rubbish; even his stress addled brain knew it. In the end, he allowed Max to continue the story about "The Little Red Hen" whilst he caught the forty winks he'd missed the previous night. A knock at the door interrupted his slumber.

"I'll get it" he said quickly, before Max could intervene and he staggered with what useless energy he had left to the door and opened it. Jacklyn's porcelin face quite surprised him. She looked somewhat different. She was wearing makeup, foundation if he was not mistaken and product in her hair. Her eyelids were lined with black kohl eyeliner which brought out the green in her eyes. Her scalp was washed for a change and she didn't look like she'd touched a needle for a while. Her clothes were different too; last time he'd seen a dress like that it was on Irene Adler. But there was something also disturbing about her face. A bruise lay barely concealed behind the layers of powder and blusher on her high cheekbones. It was a nasty, ugly thing, mottled blue and purple across her usually pale skin. Her smile was false, John could tell.

"Jacklyn" he said uneasily, "Come in"

"Is Mr Holmes in?" she asked as John offered her a seat

"He's out on a case" John said, remembering what Sherlock had said about giving away information, "He'll be back later. What brings you here?"

"I came to talk to_ you_ actually" she crossed her legs, the heel of her black stilletto gently running up her shin, "Sherlock was saying about how stressed you've been with the case and the children lately"

"Really?" John felt his eyebrows knit together, "He prefers not to talk about his private life to clients"

"It was my fault entirely. I was discussing with him the problems between I and my partner and he mentioned how this has all been affecting you. I know you are not very used to this kind of lifestyle. I can't really blame you, I can't imagine what I'd be like spending so long around a hoard of kids"

"They're no trouble. Even when they have to be kept away from bunsen burners"

This statement made Jacklyn chuckle, "Mr Holmes is a very lucky man. My children would probably spend all their time trying to talk to cats or blowing things up"

John disregarded that last statement.

"Anyway, back to the reason I came" she glanced at Max who was feeding Harriet in the kitchen, "Maybe we should go somewhere quieter…away from the kids?"

"Erm…sure" John got out of the armchair and beckoned the dark haired woman towards the staircase which led to the bedroom above.

From behind him, Jacklyn kept the smile plastered on her face despite the fact she was crumbling on the inside. Although the smiling was hurting, the bruise was in the right place, hitting all the muscles in her cheek. Moriarty aimed well, but she already knew that. She was not a victim but it was her choice to stay with him. And her choice to let him do this to her. After all, she loved him. And what was standing in her way? Two things. John Watson and her stupid little heart.

When they made it to the top of the stairs, she insisted they sit on the bed and when they were seated she removed both her shoes and ran a hand up her calves.

"Hot, isn't it?"

John raised an eyebrow but said nothing in return. To be honest, he was slightly bemused by the attention.

"Before we start" she shuffled forwards a little so she was touching him shoulder to shoulder, "Tell me more about yourself"

"Oh erm…well, I was a soldier in Afghanistan and was shot in the shoulder"

"A man of military action. How impressive"

"And then I came home and met Sherlock and became his flatmate"

"Tell me, what's Sherlock like to live with?"

"The truth? Pure hell"

Jacklyn smirked, then leaned forward revealing too much of her chest, "Have you ever had a girlfriend before John?"

John blinked in surprise, "Well yes, but Sherlock's always been the one for me"

"Don't you miss the touch of a girl though?"

"Erm…"

"We have so many more hidden features"

"Jacklyn" he let a nervous grin spread across his lips, "Are you seducing me?"

Jacklyn's face was far too close now, her lips brushing against the side of his face, "Yes"

The red drained from John's cheeks then came flooding back all too quickly. Jacklyn remained unfazed.

"I have a remedy which clears the mind" a tongue ran across those glossed lips as she glanced downwards, "It's down there"

John paused attentively and glanced down also, following her gaze to that forbbiden territory. Slowly, he reached down her shirt and felt a small round glass object inside. A small moan of pleasure escaped from the girl's lips as he pulled it out. She kept her face close as he examined the bottle of transparent liquid.

"I'm a doctor" he replied, much more calmly then he felt, "I wouldn't advise anyone a herbal remedy"

"But this isn't a herbal remedy. It's something of my…own creation, shall we say? I can't really disclose the ingredients but there's quite a few rare things mixed up in there. Perfectly safe though"

John hesitated, then deciding the worst it could do was give him a migraine and opened the bottle. The smell hit him like a ton of bricks and he coughed.

"That's a normal reaction" Jacklyn fought to keep the smile off her face, "Now lean back and relax Mr Watson"

He leaned back against the bed post and allowed his eyes to close as Jacklyn placed the bottle under his nose.

"Forget about everything" she said, her voice a low purr, "Clear your mind of everything. Breathe."

He opened his eyes to look at her but the world had grown hazy. It felt like he was on a ghastly rollercoaster. A warm pair of lips pressed themsleves against the side of his face, leaving a sticky mark.

"That's it" her voice was poison, "Breathe…"

He lifted a numb hand to his face and his hand came back with the faintest trace of red lipgloss. His mind turned that tiny speck into a river of blood until he could hear screaming and laughter and the sound of bullets flying through the air. His head hurt like hell. He could feel the heat of her voice.

"Your friend got more than he bargained for when he broke my boss's heart"

* * *

><p>"We haven't identified her yet. Do you know her?" Molly's lip twitched nervously.<p>

"Don't ask questions Molly. We're just looking. You can go. We'll clear up after ourselves" Sherlock kept his focus on the body in front of him.

His gaze didn't even touch Molly's anxious expression. Seeing her presence was no longer needed once more, she left, wondering not for the first time why Sherlock didn't seem to care for her at all.

Sherlock peeled the body bag back and Anderson made a small horrified noise.

"_Eva_?"

Sherlock glanced up at him, "You know her?"

"So do you. Evangeline Craven. We went to school with her. She was my first girlfriend"

"You mean Sally's old friend? The one who started the 'freak' palavar?"

"I'm not proud of that" Anderson replied guiltily.

"Personal feelings aside, what else do you know about her?"

"Well after we split up...I ended it–"

"Oh, I'm sure you did" this statement earned an annoyed glare.

"-she worked as a bar maid in that mad place where all those wizards hang…The Laughing Crow?"

That name made Sherlock's heart skip a beat.

"That's _it_. She's the missing link"

"How'd you know?"

"The Laughing Crow is a second home to Moriarty. He must have known her. Why he killed her, I don't know. But still. Carl, Harry, Eva. That makes half the word" he paced a little more before turning and pointing at Anderson, "Then there's you. You make the A"

"But…he didn't kill me"

"Oh, I'm quite sure he meant to. He doesn't usually leave business unfinished. But fortunately for you, his announcement was slightly preemptive."

"Oh…I see…does that mean he might come after me again?"

"Of course not, you're far too boring"

"That's good…wait, what?"

"But the T…what does the _T_ stand for?"

"Maybe it's not a name" Anderson shifted his crutch, "Maybe it's something else. An organization, a place…"

"A place…" Sherlock let that soak in his mind and his diamond white eyes suddenly lit up, "A place! Anderson!" he gripped the man by both sides, "Anderson! You're a _genius_!"

The forensic scientist blinked, "Sherlock, are you high?"

"You were never the sharpest crayon in the pack but you've really proved yourself today!" Sherlock reached for his coat and wound his scarf around his neck.

"Wait – where are we going?"

"To get John. And stop 'Jamie' before anyone else drops dead at his hand!"


	25. Imaginary battlefield

He knew that the bare wasteland around him was impossible but the way his brain was working made him seemingly unable to care. His friends lay scattered around him, surrounded by their own blood. Every move towards them moved him farther away and he felt the sun glaring down his back like a hot wet tongue of death. He turned away; he didn't want to see all his companions turn to dust around him, not again.

He saw his gun laying flat in a sand dune and quickly retrieved it. A hill sloped before him. The strategist in him said that being in the lowest place was not a good idea. Then he saw the enemy army ahead and all rational thought left. All that was left was a desire for revenge for the bodies that lay mutilated around him. He raised his gun to the descending figure but didn't shoot yet.

Two cowardly enemies crouched to the floor, two small figures hidden by dust, cowering away like the dogs they were. One, however, did not hide. He stood proud and tall, rifle over his shoulder, arm outstretched towards John as if beckoning him to the darkness of his gun. Although John respected the man's bravery, he would not be fooled into that silent realm.

"Keep away," he growled when it attempted to speak, "I swear, I'll shoot!"

It was moving backwards, blurred and curling protectively around its rifle. But it was making a noise, snarling.

"I'll…" John trailed off, sweating from the brow.

He stood meters away from it, deciding to move in for the kill. It tried to speak, a pathetic whimper. _Coward_, John thought. Just like the enemy to beg for mercy when looking its own death in the face.

He pulled back the trigger and shot once

The first thing he heard when the bullet pulled him back to the real world was a terrified scream. And then the shattering of glass. And Blue's continuous barking ringing in his ears. His forehead was damp and sweat trickled down the bridge of his nose like a stream. Jacklyn was gone; only the solider lay before him, pinned up against the glass, trembling and crying and clutching his rifle.

But there was no solider. Only Max.

And there was no rifle. Only Harriet. His own daughter.

The shaking reached John's hands and he could feel the clicking of bullets rattling inside the weapon like pennies in a jar. Max clung to Harriet as if on the verge of crushing her and all the while John stood there in frozen motion, unable to make his muscles move.

* * *

><p>"John! We've got it John!" Sherlock burst into 221B in a flurry, "We-"<p>

He trailed off when he saw the living room was empty, with no trace of John, Max or the children in sight. He frowned and went up the stairs in case they were in the bedroom, though this seemed unlikely as Harriet wasn't due for her nap for another half an hour.

He could feel it before he entered the room, but even so, he couldn't believe what he saw. The mirror which always stood in the corner of his and John's room had a hole in it, the glass spreading out like a spider web. Underneath it, Max was curled up in a ball, hands wrapped protectively around Harry, who'd been startled by the sudden noise and was starting to sob. And in the middle of the room, arms stretched out and holding a gun, was John, pale faced and sweating. For a brief second, Sherlock believed the doctor had finally snapped. But the man's body language suggested otherwise. There was something wrong – something about his eyes that wasn't right.

"John…" Sherlock spoke slowly, not daring to move in case John freaked out and shot him on the spot.

The doctor didn't react to his voice. His gaze was fixated on Max, as if he intended on firing another round. He wasn't completely out of this alternate world. There were still traces of sand spread across the floor. Anderson crouched on the stairs, wandering if this was a part of everyday life in 221B.

"John, listen to me…" Sherlock held out his hand in an attempt to calm him down, "…I need you to drop the gun"

Again, John didn't respond. His finger was stroking the trigger, shaking so violently it was a wander he didn't set it off then and there. The seat rolled down his face like tears.

"John…" Sherlock took this opportunity to step forward, "…drop the gun…"

Those pale lips trembled.

"Can't…" he choked for the first time, "…s'too late."

"It's not-"

"They're all dead…"

Sherlock decided to keep the doctor talking for as long as he could, "Who's dead John?"

The doctor bent his head and whimpered, "All bloody dead…"

"Who?"

"Who do you think?" John's voice came out strained, pathetic, "Are you _blind_, can't you see them?"

"No, I can't see them John" Sherlock edged his way towards the doctor, "What do they look like?"

John screwed his face up, shaking his head, "They're a mess" he said it in a whisper so there'd be less pain in his speech, "They're all a mess…Jesus…"

Sherlock wasn't too far away from him now. He was close enough to touch him.

"They _are_ dead John…they died a long time ago. They're not here anymore."

John's breathing got harder, "I know it's him" he was talking more to Max now, "The bastard that gave me this limp," he cocked the gun, "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't shoot him in the eye."

The hold on Harriet got tighter.

"Because he's not there John. It's all in your head. He's gone, he's not there anymore. And neither are you."

"How can you say-?"

"Look at him John," Sherlock gently put both hands on the doctor's shoulders, "Look at him properly."

John was now shaking so violently he could barely stand, "I can't…"

"_Look_ at him!" Sherlock's tone was a mixture of anger and desperation, "Look at him and tell me what you see!"

"I…"

John kept blinking. The sand was getting fuzzy now, replaced with the warm blue of the carpet. Things were suddenly familiar again; the familiar scent of the flat replaced the foul essence of sweat and blood. He pushed the anger away and suddenly he could move again. The feeling in his legs returned and Sherlock had to grab him under the arms before he collapsed completely. The double vision passed away and as he searched for the fallen soldier all he saw was his surrogate nephew holding his daughter as if he couldn't bear to let her go. The grip on the gun tightened until his knuckles were white.

"I didn't…" he gasped, drinking in the image before him, "…my baby."

In a sickening moment, John threw the gun aside so it hit the wardrobe and left a dent in the wood and the bullets spilled out onto the carpet below. Sherlock noticed a perfume bottle lying spilt on the floor, the scent of it almost driving him insane. He could identify that scent without even having to examine the bottle. Fluid from a rat's eye, cats blood (unsurprisingly) but the main ingredient mixed with it all was LSD. No wander John thought he'd returned to that world of hell.

Sherlock lifted his foot and crushed the bottle, ruining the last of the mixture. It'd take days to get the stain out of the carpet but for now that was Mrs. Hudson's concern. He crouched down to John and put his hands on his cheeks, trying to calm him down. Anderson crouched beside Max and carefully unlatched Harriet from his hold before he suffocated her.

"John. John! I need you to concentrate!" his voice came out too harsh so he gentled it, "What happened John, who gave that to you?"

John stopped gasping and almost dissolved into tears, "How could I do that?"

"It wasn't you John, your mind was playing tricks. You were hallucinating. That liquid had traces of LSD mixed in it. You were drugged, who drugged you?"

"She said they were here?"

"Who?" Sherlock became frustrated when he didn't receive an answer right away, "Who John?"

"She looked me right in the eyes and told me they were here. Her eyes were on fire-"

"John, I need you to tell me who."

Watson tried to picture her face, "Green eyes…" he said softly

Sherlock had a better memory, "Why was Jacklyn here?"

John shook his weary head, "Can't remember…"

* * *

><p>"What on <em>earth<em> were you playing at up there Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson called up the stairs, "I heard a shot!"

"Just the TV Mrs. Hudson" Sherlock replied, "We'll try to keep it down!"

Sherlock sat John down quickly in his armchair so the man had time to control his movement. He allowed Max to curl up onto the sofa and looked about for the other children. A small whimper came from under the table and when he lifted the tablecloth he found Benedict and Martin huddled underneath it, trembling and clutching each other. He sighed with relief and lifted them both out, looking for James. But James wasn't there. He got out from under the table and called for the little boy but no response came. Which was worrying because James always answered to his name.

Sherlock did his best not to panic. He went to John and put his hands on his arms.

"I need you to remember John" he said, trying to keep calm, "Did Jacklyn leave at any point? Did she go downstairs?"

"…think so," John swallowed, trying to get his breath back, "She just disappeared."

"No…" Sherlock buried his face in his hands, "God, no…"

"What is it?" Anderson shifted at Sherlock's expression, balancing Harriet on his hip, "What's going on?"

"She's taken him," Sherlock sank his front teeth into his lip until he tasted blood, "She took James."

John suddenly snapped back into life, "But…how?"

"She drugged you John. And probably hypnotised you as well. I should have known..."

"She told me John needed help," Max croaked from the sofa, "She made me go upstairs…" realising what this meant, he suddenly started sobbing, "It's all my fault."

Sherlock put a hand on his head, "No it isn't. It's mine. I've been so wrapped up on this God forsaken case, I…" he knew he couldn't focus on 'what if's' at this moment in time. He needed to focus on James.

"T," he announced suddenly, "Work out what 'T' stands for and we'll find him," he started pacing, trying to retrace his memory, "T…what could it stand for? Anderson, shut that window. I can't think."

Anderson rolled his eyes, setting Harriet carefully on the floor and going to shut the window. There were several black crows sitting on the ledge, their constant cawing distracting the consulting detective.

"Wait…" Sherlock's eyes suddenly lit up, "The crow! The laughing crow, that's _it_!" he laughed, "Oho, this is _brilliant_!"

"Sherlock-"

"I knew Moriarty was a sly fox but this is just gold dust," he started pulling his coat on and wrapped his scarf around his neck, "John, get your gun."

John shook his head, "What? Why-?"

"You'll need it. Anderson, you stay here and look after the children."

"_Me_?" Anderson squeaked, peering down at Gladstone who was crawling through his legs, sniffing out this unfamiliar person.

"Nothing to worry about," Sherlock was already out the door, "Just as long as they don't get anywhere near any Bunsen burners. Come on John, hurry! If that bastard has touched my baby, he'll have hell to pay. Even if I'm dragged down there with him!"


	26. Personality change

"Do you have him?" Moriarty didn't turn around, just in case he was disappointed by what he saw.

Jacklyn hesitated then lifted James onto the table and set him down. The little one was not used to these new surroundings and looked desperately about for Sherlock or John. Jim shortened his breath and turned around, meeting James' identical eyes for the very first time. For a second he couldn't breathe. He reached out and touched the toddler just to check he was real. Despite the fact James had never laid eyes upon Jim Moriarty before, he seemed somewhat familiar and he reached out his little arms for Jim to take him. Jim did so with great uncertainty and watched with slight awe as the miniature Sherlock began studying his face, touching his nose and cheeks thoughtfully.

It was like looking at a completely different Moriarty to Jacklyn. For a second, he looked almost normal. A normal, perfectly sane person. All of a sudden, he didn't look like Jim Moriarty, the messed up psychopath/rapist/bomber anymore. What was it about this child that made him feel like this? What did this boy, this _tiny_ boy, have that she didn't? She knew what he had. He had Jim Moriarty's eyes. Jacklyn's owl flew to her shoulder and studied the little boy behind its sullen gaze. It shared the same jealousy Jacklyn felt.

"Wasn't it worth it?" Jim kept his eyes on the toddler in his arms, "Isn't he just amazing?"

Jacklyn cleared her throat, not giving him a clear answer. This wasn't the reaction he was expecting.

"You're disappointed"

"A little" her voice was sour.

Jim sighed, settling James back onto the table next to Black Cat, who immediately began rubbing himself against the baby's shoulder, "What is it _now_?"

Jacklyn didn't look him in the eyes. The line of bruising on her cheek came into view.

"Is this about what happened?" Jim said when he noticed it, "Look, if it's any constellation, I apologize. I just got carried away-"

"You got pissed off" Jacklyn snapped, "So I became your official punch bag"

"Jacky-"

"_Don't_" she could feel the heat swelling into her cheeks, "Just…" she shook her head, not bothering to finish off that sentence.

Jim rolled his eyes at her ignorance, "Jacky, don't you see? We've got him now. It's over. He can be ours"

"He'll never be mine. And he's not yours either. And if you really think Sherlock Holmes will sit around whilst you're here with his child then you're pathetic"

Had James not been present, Jim probably would have hit her. His personality changed quicker than you could blink. But he decided having a domestic with his current experiment wasn't a good idea.

"With all due respect Jacky" he didn't bother to look up at her, "It was fun while it lasted. But I have my work and you have yours. Maybe we should tone it down a bit until all this goes away"

Jacklyn, unable to believe what she was hearing, went and opened the door, the music from the club upstairs gently drifting into the room. Before she left, she muttered, "I could have given you a better child than Sherlock Holmes ever could" and left quickly, so he couldn't see her tears.

Jim, however, had failed to hear her. As he was too busy marvelling over what he'd been fighting for all those long, tiring months.


	27. Breaking the ice

"Are you _sure _this is where he's hiding?" John asked, poking his head around the brick wall which he and Sherlock were crouched behind, "We've been here for hours, it's getting dark"

"Certain" Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on the people flooding out of the inn, "This place would never close so early. He wants everybody out. He's expecting us"

They waited until the last of the dark figures (and a lot of animals) were out of sight before they made their way to the entrance of the inn. Of course, the door had been locked.

"Great" John grunted, "Now what?"

Sherlock sank to his knees and felt underneath the Welcome Rug for a few seconds, before retrieving a small silver key from underneath it. He smiled triumphantly, waving it in front of John's astonished face before turning it in the lock and opening the door.

"There should be a basement down here" he said, flicking on his torch and shining it through the darkness. He met John's puzzled face, "I used to be a visitor"

"So this is where the wizards hang out then?" John asked, turning his own torch on.

"They _think_ themselves wizards" Sherlock explained, "Some spend all day in here, conjuring up 'spells'. They believe their soul lies in a certain animal; a bird, a snake, a cat. They specialize in hypnotism, which is what happened to you John. Jacklyn must have spoken to you whilst you were hallucinating, oldest trick in the book. That stuff you inhaled reeked of LSD, this place is probably stashed full of it"

"So they magic up the dead whilst snorting drugs?"

"Other way round actually"

They found a door which led to some stone steps, spiralling down into pitch darkness.

John twitched uneasily, "You first"

An illusion of shadows seemed to echo around them and Sherlock held onto his torch as if it was James' hand. He kept one arm to his side and the other shook, simultaneously. James was constantly on his mind now and it brought out all the hidden emotion in his body. He dismissed the thought of any harm coming to his son, that was not Moriarty's intention. Quite the opposite in fact. He just liked seeing the detective dance.

He'd always been that way

* * *

><p>"Are you certain?"<p>

"Yes Sherlock, I'm certain. It was on my desk and when I went to get it, it was gone and this was there"

Sherlock took the note from Anderson's hand and examined the scribbled writing upon it.

_You really should watch where you put your stuff, Green Eyes_

_Your little friend Sherly has three hours to find Mr. Hops_

_Or the rabbit gets it _

_**Jamie** x_

"How childishly immature" Sherlock said, screwing the paper up, "And such poor grammar too"

"Sherlock, we need to get Mr Hops back!" Anderson said in alarm, "I can't sleep without him!"

"Keep calm Anderson" Sherlock said, putting his hands together, "We'll get him back. But it'll take some time. You know that there's always a puzzle involved when it comes to Jamie"

* * *

><p>"You okay?"<p>

Sherlock blinked, returning from his childhood dreams. He nodded and decided from now on he'd keep his focus on James and stop drifting off into an alternate world like he used to do when he took meth. They were almost at the bottom of the stairs and a distinctive dripping sound could be heard from nearby. A cave like hallway, sloping downwards to yet _more_ steps and ending at a door. Sherlock's pace got faster and John cursed his longer legs, trying to keep in step with him.

The door was not sealed, much to their surprise. John took out his gun as the consulting detective pushed it open and shone a light in the darkness. The room was almost pitch black, except for a lonely fire-lit torch flickering against the wall. The walls were all made from stone, with no windows. The floor was wet from the dripping ceiling. There was a water fountain nearby, carved in the shape of an angel. It was all too familiar to Sherlock and he turned the unneeded torch off. Somebody was there, he could feel it. They were everywhere, like they'd always been for the years he'd been alive.

"Come out" he said dryly.

Silence was his only reply. Then distant footsteps, wet against the moisture of the floor. John tightened his hold on the gun as a familiar face appeared from the darkness. Two eyes glistened.

"Sherly…how _nice_ of you to join us"

"Where is he?" Sherlock's hands balled into fists.

"Relax" Moriarty stuffed his hands into his pockets like a stubborn child, his black cat curled around his shoulders like a scarf, "He's fine. He's where he should be"

"Where he _should_ be is ten miles out of your radius"

"Such a negative mind Sherlock" Jim lowered his head, his eyes wicked, "You wound me"

"Are you really that pathetic? Thinking he belongs with you?"

"Even _you_ know he belongs with me Sherly. Or haven't you looked into his eyes recently?"

At this, the detective winced. This was the reaction expected. Moriarty put his thumb and forefinger in his mouth and whistled once, an action which brought more footsteps into earshot. A slinky figure entered from the blackness, carrying a baby. At the sight of James, Sherlock's eyes lit up.

"You see Sherlock?" Moriarty stroked the bottom of James' chin, "Look at his eyes. And tell me they're not mine"

The fists started shaking. Jacklyn bent her head and allowed her hair to fall into her eyes.

"Put the gun down" Moriarty said swiftly, "Or I might have to do something I regret"

Sherlock knew when a man was bluffing. And Jim Moriarty wasn't. He nodded at John who hesitantly set the weapon down and pushed it behind him so it slid across the floor out of reach. Jacklyn watched it disappear into the darkness and lowered her eyes again.

Sherlock started deducing off her

_Past domestic violence._

_Drug use._

_One, two, **three** boyfriends._

_Scratch that, two boyfriends, one girlfriend._

_Lack of makeup suggested recent break up._

_Swelling around the abdomen suggested…_

Sherlock felt his lips curl into a smile, something which Jim was not expecting, "Oh Jim, you _do_ amuse me"

"What?" Moriarty frowned, "What's so funny?"

"Wittering on about having a child of your own. You really have no idea, do you?"

Jim sank his teeth into his bottom lip, "What did I get wrong?"

"You haven't told him…" his attention turned to Jacklyn who bent her head further, "…have you?"

Jim glanced back at her, studied her for a while then turned back to Sherlock, "Told me what?"

"You've always been like that, haven't you Jim? You never look at the full picture. You never read all the words. You just see what you want to see" he took a step too close for comfort and John flinched, "You looked at her…and saw an experiment"

Moriarty rolled his eyes and fingered Black Cat's tail, "Take it easy on the poor girl, she knows it already-"

"It's a shame to think your experiment is smarter than you are"

A frown appeared in that darkened face, 'What are you-?"

"How long Jacklyn?" Sherlock called over, "I'd say about…five months?"

Moriarty cast a look at Jacklyn which asked her silently what the _hell_ the consulting detective was rattling on about. She remained mute, gripping James closer to her.

"Oh really Jim, you mean to tell me you didn't notice? Assumed she was putting on weight I suppose?"

"Are you suggesting that-?"

"She's pregnant? Of _course_ she is. Any fool could see it"

For the first time in his life, Moriarty looked at the full picture. She didn't_ look_ pregnant, she was still the slim figure she'd been when he'd met her. Nothing had changed.

"How can you tell?"

"I know an expectant mother when I see one" Sherlock said coldly, his eyes drilling through into Jacklyn's mind, "You knew, didn't you? But you never told him. Let me guess, he walked all over you? Said he loved you, he needed you? But then it got a little bit too frisky, didn't it? You've known him for how long…about half a year? And already you're carrying his child"

Jacklyn was as white as paper.

"Jesus…" John spoke for the first time, "…how can you be with a guy like that?"

A tongue ran across those red chapped lips and from behind a screen of hair she replied, "Because I love him…"

The doctor shook his head in disbelief. But Sherlock seemed more sympathetic.

"I know the feeling" his eyes locked with Moriarty's for a second and a thousand visions from the past flashed before them both like blinking headlamps.

Jim was the first to break away from the gaze, "Whether it's even mine or not" he glanced over at Jacklyn for a second, "It doesn't matter. I still have the one thing that makes you tick"

Sherlock laughed, "I admire your ignorance. But I think you know as well as I that the game is over"

"Don't hold your breath" replied a voice from behind.

Sherlock turned, but saw nothing but the dreary blackness. But there was movement coming from around and the sound of something shuffling closer, towards them.

And Anderson stepped out from the shadows, his green eyes glinting off the only surviving light of the room. His eyes flickered from Moriarty to Sherlock and he nodded.

"Evening"


	28. Invisible

For a moment, Sherlock wandered if he'd been wrong all this time.

Anderson stood there, leaning casually on his crutch, half a smile spread across his lips as he stared the consulting detective out with his green eyes. At the sight of him, Moriarty grinned and Black Cat leapt off his shoulders.

"Anderson…" Sherlock's voice was low and dull, "What the hell-?"

"You needn't worry Sherlock. The kids are fine. They're with your housekeeper" he tapped his fingers against his thigh, "You don't mind if I join you, do you?"

The consulting detective was truly lost for words, "What are you doing here?"

"You really thought I'd sit and wait for you to come back?" he gave out a bitter laugh, "How boring. I thought I'd just tag along. I have some catching up to do" his eyes swivelled over and locked with Jim Moriarty's, cold and merciless.

"Dear, dear, Green Eyes. It has been a while hasn't it?"

"Yes, it has been. Jamie"

"I must say, as aroused as I am by Sherlock, you were a _damn_ good shag"

"What, when I was fourteen or when you _raped_ me?"

John stared at Sherlock, silently asking him where this discussion was going.

"Rape? I'd hardly call it that. You were all over me, just like the old times. You wanted it just as much as I did"

"You keep telling yourself that"

"Wait…" John cut in, "…you mean to say, Moriarty and _Anderson_ used to-?"

"Screw each other?" Moriarty laughed bitterly, "I take it Sherlock didn't mention that Green Eyes over here was quite the town slut when we were kids. Let me see…there was Eva, Kirsty, Ellen, _Sally_…"

Anderson gritted his teeth, "Shut up"

"And then of course you got bored and changed routes. Moved onto the boys. Do you remember Todd Dimmock? Or Sebastian Wilkes? Not sure you do. I must say though, you and Sherlock were sweet together. Too bad it didn't work out. I guess I was fourth time lucky"

Sherlock stared at them both, "Anderson, what the hell is he talking about?"

The forensic scientist wet his lips, not daring to move his eyes anywhere way from the psychopath in front of him, "I was fourteen…"

"You were a _whore_" Jim said with a grin, "When you weren't sticking your tongue down Sherly's throat, you were under the sheets with me"

"You _forced_ me-"

"And you should have seen your face when you found out about Sherlock and I. Like a heartbroken little girl-"

"Hold on, hold on" John shook his head, trying to make sense of the situation, "You mean to tell me that both of you were getting it on with Moriarty, at the _same_ time?"

Jacklyn twitched uncomfortably.

"Got it in one Johnny boy. Goodness me, you are clever" Jim sent the doctor a wink.

"It all started when we were kids didn't it?" Sherlock said grimly, "All that CHEAT business. You were planning it from primary school, weren't you"

Jim shrugged, "What can I say? I started young"

"You wrote it everywhere. Everybody talked about it but nobody knew what it meant. C-H-E-A-T. I supposed they assumed it was some kind of threat, aimed at a certain person. But no, it was cleverer than that wasn't it. It was a puzzle, a code. And to think it took me this long to work it out"

Moriarty ran his front teeth over his lip, "And how did you work it out, Sherly dear?"

Sherlocked liked this part. It was how he got his kicks.

"Carl Powers, well known athlete and swimmer. Drowned in a swimming pool. I solved the case not two years ago, his eczema medicine had been poisoned causing him to fit in the water. I assumed you killed him just for the fun of it but now I see there's more to it then that. He was the first piece wasn't he? The first piece of the puzzle. He was the C. And then there was Harriet Watson, shot in the head. The perfect diversion. Enough to get John out of the way long enough for you to kill me, but it didn't quite work out did it? And then there was Evangeline Craven, barmaid at the Laughing Crow, you were really comfortable with her weren't you? Enough to get her where you wanted her, enough to kill her. But why, why a simple barmaid? I know why. Because she overheard about your little scheme to bring down Sherlock Holmes and she wanted in. But she wasn't like you and I, she didn't do it for the thrill of it. No, she wanted something out of it, she wanted money. But like most young people like her, there came a time when it wasn't enough. She got greedy, and threatened to expose your identities if you didn't pay up. So she had to go didn't she, couldn't have that sneaky little brat snitching on you to the police could we? And Anderson…" he glanced at the forensic scientist, "Yet another trick to make me dance. Killing him probably wasn't your intention, you just wanted a little bit of fun, something to keep me on my toes. A little reminder of what you used to do to me on a daily basis I imagine. Anything to make me squirm. And I must say, I liked the touch with the cat blood, very gutwrenching. Last of all, the T. Could have stood for a name, but that would leave a dead end. It had to lead somewhere, so instead of a name you made it a place. The Laughing Crow, an old hideout of yours. Been going there since you were a child, got your head warped in all that 'magician' nonsense. The sequence is complete. I worked it out. The game is over"

"No…"

Sherlock glanced over at Anderson who was shaking his head, his lips stretched out into a smile again. He frowned at the man reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver weapon.

"It's nowhere _near_ over"

John's gun.

"Crap…" John muttered, remembering that he'd put it on the floor.

Sherlock held out a hand towards the forensic scientist, "Anderson…"

"What was it all for?" Anderson's hands were shaking as he held the weapon in both hands, allowing his crutch to fall, "All the words, all the touches, what?"

Jim grinned at him, "Andy honey, you haven't changed a bit. Still so fiesty"

"You haven't answered my question"

"You were all part of the _game_, kitten" Jim took a few steps towards him, hands in pockets, "Hey, it was a laugh"

"For _you_"

"Well, that's all that matters isn't it? As long as I get what I want"

"You're insane"

"That's the way you liked it baby"

Sherlock knew Anderson was not a patient man. He was blind to the fact that killing Moriarty was not an option. It would get them nowhere.

"Anderson…listen to me. Put the gun down"

"Why should I? Give me a good reason"

"Because if you don't, a little boy will die"

Anderson glanced guiltily at an oblivious James but kept the weapon positioned between Moriarty's eyes.

"Anderson please, he'll kill my son if you don't" Sherlock said with as much sincerity as he could manage, "I know what he did to you was diabolical, believe me, I know. But is it really worth a child's life?"

Anderson's arms started shaking, his eyes glassed over, "I was a virgin…" he allowed a drop of water to fall, "…_was_…"

"It's over Anderson. It's all over. You need to let it go"

"It will _never_ be over. Not until he dies"

"Let it go, Anderson" Sherlock was up close now, as close as he wanted to get, "I did, and it was the best thing I could have done. Don't keep him under your skin for the rest of your life. Let it go..."

Anderson kept shaking his head, but his arm slowly dropped by his side and he removed his finger from the trigger. John sighed with relief and breathed in the air he'd been holding in for what seemed like forever. Jim raised his eyebrows.

"It's a shame" he shrugged, "Would've liked to have seen some blood. Though, not very appropriate for little James there"

Anderson scowled.

"You've always been an isolant little bitch, Andy" Moriarty got closer until they were practically nose to nose, "Always pulled away from every kiss…always shivered at every touch…" he ran a finger down Anderson's chest, making him shudder in return, "…no. Nothing has changed, as it? You'll always be that little bit on the side, won't you? Because you're just Peter Anderson. The lonely forensic scientist" he laughed, "You're _invisible_"

He stepped away and started walking back towards Jacklyn, satisfied.

Even Sherlock couldn't deduct what was going to happen next.

Anderson's normally calm and sensible demeanor slowly changed and his face contorted in an all consuming anger; his eyes flashing and closing into slits, his mouth quivering, slurring words that were unintelligible. His hands closed into fists and he crouched forward, daring Moriarty to repeat once more the word that had torn his heart into fragments, that had dashed all his expectations of a happy life.

_Invisible _

He didn't wait.

Before Sherlock could reach out and stop him, Anderson lifted the gun and shot once.


	29. A month later

"So you see Greg, CHEAT was Moriarty's code for all his victims. He'd been planning this since he was a child. And it was under our noses all this time"

Lestrade stared at the consulting detective in disbelief, tapping his fingers against the desk, "How _do_ you do it Sherlock, how do you bloody do it?"

Sherlock shrugged, "Runs in the genes" he leant back in his chair and called through the open door, "Anderson! Get a move on; we need those blood samples pronto! It's been a week since I've had a case, my patience is wearing thin!"

"Alright, hold your horses" Anderson appeared with Harriet on his shoulders, "This one's got me running around like a Golden Retriever"

Sherlock took his daughter in his arms, rubbing their noses together affectionately, "Good idea of yours Greg, bringing the kids to work. Much easier than leaving them back at the flat"

"Yeah" Lestrade was brimming with sarcasm, "_Much_ easier"

Martin came running through the door, covered in black ink and Lestrade only just managed to keep them from spoiling his suit in time. Sally entered after them and on seeing her, Sherlock snorted with laughter.

"_Donovan_?" Lestrade barely recognised her, "What happened?"

Sally wiped the ink off her cheeks, "Your nephew and I had a very _interesting_ game of Cowboys and Indians"

Lestrade stifled a laugh, then glanced around, "Where's Benedict?"

"Sherlock!" John's voice called from outside Lestrade's office, "I could use your help out here!"

Sherlock excused himself and went to assist John in helping prise James away from the lab equipment. He gently scolded the child but could not keep a firm face for long without rubbing his cheeks against that familiar dark tussle of hair. Twice he'd been close to losing James. He decided that was it. No more life threatening cases. As painful as it was, he'd just have to stick to car jacking and house breakings from now on. For his children's sake.

"Max will be staying with us for a few months John, before he moves in with his partner. I hope that's alright"

"Just as long as he doesn't shoot walls too"

Sherlock allowed James to join his sister on the floor and sat himself down next to John.

"We should go out tonight" he said, winding his arms around the doctor's neck, "Dinner, my treat"

"Sounds great, but we'll need a babysitter"

"Max can manage fine"

"With _both_ of them? I'm not sure Sherlock. Maybe we should ask Greg to keep an eye on them"

"He's out on a raid tonight. I don't think that kind of environment is suitable for a pair of toddlers"

"What about Anderson?"

Sherlock glanced over at Anderson who was slowly being overpowered by Martin in a staring contest, "He's only just got off his crutch, shouldn't strain him"

"Sally?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, "I've heard she's not one for playtime"

"Mrs Hudson then, you can't go wrong with her"

"Good choice" he planted a kiss on the doctor's neck, "And when we get back and the kids are in bed…well, we've been so busy lately we haven't had much time to ourselves have we?"

John smirked and ran his tongue across Sherlock's bottom lip, "I like your thinking Mr Holmes"

"Get a room you two" Sally snorted, walking past them, still dabbing at her face. Sherlock ignored her teasing and began sucking on John's neck.

"By the way" the doctor said between kisses, "Mycroft texted me. Sends his congratulations on the case"

Sherlock shrugged, "I don't see what there is to celebrate. Moriarty is still out there, still on the loose and now he had a pregnant accomplice ready to breed his offspring"

"But we have James back. Isn't that worth celebrating?"

The consulting detective smiled, "I suppose"

He sneaked his tongue into John's mouth again.

"Sally's right" Lestrade shook his head at them both, interrupting their moment of passion, "You need to get a room"

"You're just sore because you can't join in" Sherlock wiped the wet stuff off of his bottom lip.

The inspector rolled his eyes, "Has anyone seen where Benedict's got to?"

"Uncle Greg, Uncle Greg!" Benedict came running in at full speed, "Look what I found outside!"

Lestrade glanced down and saw his nephew was carrying a grey cat that was bigger than he was in his arms. It seemed a very dim cat, unresponsive to the fact half its body was being trailed along the floor. Lestrade stared at them both in confusion.

"Benny, where on earth did you get that from?"

"It was on the road and it kept meowing. So I brought it in" replied the child.

"It's pretty" said John

"A British blue if I'm not mistaken" Sherlock added.

"No it isn't. It's an Andyson cat" said Benedict, "It looks just like Andyson"

Lestrade's eyebrows rose and he turned to Anderson, "He's right you know"

Anderson's cheek flushed pink.

"Can we please keep him Uncle Greg, _please_" the twins pleaded together.

The detective inspector scratched the back of his head, "I'm not sure your mother would…" he met the eyes of the pleading twins and sighed, "Alright, alright, you can keep it. Just as long as it doesn't ruin the carpet"

Whilst Benedict and Martin showed James and Harriet their new pet and debated over whether cats were better than dogs, Lestrade turned to Sherlock and laughed,

"Blooming kids, eh? What _were_ we thinking when we had them?"

* * *

><p>"You know Sherlock..." John said later at home as they were putting the children to bed, "We live together and have two kids now, so we should probably get-"<p>

"Married?"

"Well, I _was_ going to say a bigger flat, but OK"


	30. Twins

**FINAL CHAPTER! Thank you all soooo much for all your lovely reviews! My fingers are going to fall off with all this writing. Oooh, I have so many people to thank for the creation of this story. Foreverthepretender, who helped me a lot with the Moriarty scenes, and expecially Darkmagicalsorcres, who kindly leant me her character Jacklyn. Without you, this story may never have worked out *salutes* I am pondering over a prequel, which will include an older James and Harriet but if I decide to make one, it won't be for a while folks. I need my rest :P Love you all my herbe fleurs! 3**

* * *

><p>It all ended with a shot.<p>

And it started too.

She left everything after that. She abandoned the baby, letting it crawl back to its rightful parents and went to him at once, turning her full attention on the fallen man. She let them take the baby and leave. She let them have what they wanted. Because all she wanted was _him_. She knew what she should have done. She should have taken the gun and turned the tables. But she didn't. What was the point?

It was all a vision of white and flashing lights. He felt himself drifting in and out of consciousness. He saw Sherlock and the night which changed everything. And that song rang in his ears, that bloody song.

**_Guess I'd rather hurt than feel nothing at all_**

**_It's a quarter after one, I'm all alone and I need you now._**

That's what you do when you think you're going to die.

You erase all the horror out of it and let the world disappear around you. You concentrate on the peaceful contentment to take your mind off the pain.

You take in the darkness surrounding you…

_All the lights going out…_

_Just silence_

_And blackness everywhere._

_And a beautiful feeling, like sitting on a bubble of light. _

Then someone was pressing the life back into him.

He opened his eyes and saw stars.

Two green eyes stared down and for a moment he thought it was Anderson, come to haunt him in the afterlife.

Something pressed against his lips and breathed in the air he needed.

_He felt warm again _

The dark haired woman was watching him with an emotionless expression, running her hand down his front. He felt the hole in his back but felt no pain.

"How…?"

"Just a spell I know" her voice was cold and deadly, "Just a magic trick"

Something wet snuck into his mouth and he groaned, moving his hand down towards her abdomen. He could almost feel the heartbeat of his son or daughter inside. In those split seconds he had being conscious, he uttered something which he would later look back to and laugh at.

"Boy or girl?"

A whisper tickled his ear, making him shiver.

"Neither. You've got twins"


End file.
